Nexus X
by Ricoch3t
Summary: Wherein Mycroft decides to up his security on Sherlock, just in time for a deadly new game to begin. But Moriarty is no longer the only shadow hungry for Sherlock Holmes's destruction. And this time, isolating the detective is only the beginning of a plot that's been years in the making. Written Pre-Season 2, very much AU. WARNINGS for torture.
1. Prologue

Prologue

The blue glow of the large screen was the only illumination in the massive room.

Its dim light vaguely outlined the figure of a somewhat plump man, who was leaning on an umbrella. The thin hiss of the door opening didn't even seem to register on his thoughtful countenance.

The sound of someone hitting a desk and the curse that followed it, did however cause him to turn around.

"Goddammit! Why the hell are the lights off? I mean, who the hell stands brooding in the dark? It's all to keep up some idiotic idea that you're all mysterious and shit, isn't it?" A silky female voice grumped.

"Hello, Miss Taylor." Mycroft Holmes greeted in his usual cordial fashion, mere seconds before the lights flooded his retinas. He blinked exactly twice in response to this.

"Miss Taylor? What did I do to piss you off?" The woman in question asked, her green eyes wide as she threw her bomber jacket onto one of the desks and promptly sat down, putting her heeled feet on the desk as well.

"Perhaps the death of a very important lead in a terrorist cell?"

"Gah. Whatever- the cell is neutralized. Isn't that the _point_? I never thought you would be one to split hairs."

"You killed the entire cell. If word got out that you executed ten men..."

"I made a statement. They'll think twice before trying that shit again. Not to mention you'd _never_ let it get out."

"Hm. Still, some people are saying that you've been given too much leeway. That you're a risk to us all."

"I am. So don't piss me off. I don't take betrayal too well."

"A fact I had noticed."

"Good. But you didn't call me here to have 'The Talk' with me. Does it have something to do with that man on the screen? Do I get to kill him?"

"NO. I mean, no. He is not to be harmed."

"Family, huh?"

"My brother... he has rather a gift for finding trouble it would seem."

"Ohhh no. No, no, no. A thousand times no. I can see where this is going, and no."

"And where is this going?"

"You want me to babysit him!"

"It would hardly be babysitting." Mycroft said mildly.

"Do I have to keep an eye on him and keep him out of trouble?"

"That would be rather a lovely thing to accomplish."

"Then it's babysitting." The woman said shortly.

"There is a rather bigger scope to this mission."

He flicked his hand over the touch screen and a new picture of a rather mousy looking man appeared on it.

"This is Jim Moriarty."

"Do I get to kick his ass?"

"Now that _would_ be rather a lovely thing to do."

"Threatened your brother did he?"

"Indeed."

The woman rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her neatly waved, waist long brown hair.

"Don't mess with la familia, huh?"

"The man is a criminal mastermind for hire. Who knows what his possible terrorist ties he may have?"

"But mostly he screwed with your little brother."

"Merely one reason in a long list."

"But the one that made you call me in, instead of say Davies. Who's nice and mild mannered and by the book. After all, the last time I babysat anyone they ended up needing years of therapy."

"Yes, how is your younger brother?"

The woman shrugged. "He's talking now at least."

"That is a relief."

The woman gave him a long look. "What does he do?"

"He's a consulting detective. He has a website, it's rather informative."

"Do you Holmses just make up job titles to suit you?"

"Oh, yes. Mummy was an anthro-zoologist."

"... That one doesn't even make sense."

"It does, but it is rather strange."

"Right. So, do I get to shoot Moriarty on sight?"

"If he comes within a hundred sea miles of my brother I want you to make him... _suffer_."

"Hm. I don't know. I bet if I give your brother any psychological damage you'll make me suffer."

"Yes. However, I think that you will find that Sherlock is rather hard to inflict psychological damage upon."

"Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight… I'm not biting. Something's up."

"Nothing is 'up', Miss Taylor. But your special skill set will be valuable on this particular assignment."

At this the woman stopped inspecting her nails. "Really?"

"As I said. He is a consulting detective. He is able to tell things through mere observation that most people would not be able to tell even after knowing each other for years."

"And you want me to infiltrate his circle and keep an eye on him?"

"A most challenging task, I assure you. That is why I called upon you."

"So, what? Are you going to let me pretend to think about this, or are you just going to spirit me away in the night to do your bidding, oh master?"

Mycroft gave her a small smile. "We're all adults here, Miss Taylor. As you've so clearly pointed out- this is my brother we're talking about."

The woman snorted, pulled out her iPad and promptly downloaded his files on Sherlock. "So, definitely one that I have to do your bidding on. Nice to know. I'll be sure to wear something flame retardant for when this goes to hell in a handbasket."

So it was that Davies found her a few hours later pouring over 'The Science of Deduction', her target's blog.

"Hey Christine."

He got a grunt for his troubles. Leaning over her shoulder, he didn't even flinch as she grabbed his nose and twisted it until he backed off. He'd had his nose broken the first time she'd done that.

"The Science of Deduction? What is that?"

"The demented ravings of an obviously brilliant mind. Why do you care?"

"I always care. It's part of my charm." He shrugged as he settled into a chair he'd pulled up outside her personal space.

"Huh. I fail to see how you could ever be _charming_."

"Ouch, Chris. Just ouch."

"Good. I was afraid that being stuck reading all day I wouldn't be able to fill my quota of people to piss off."

Daniel Davies laughed at her. "Yes, well. I'm going for coffee. Want to join me?"

She turned baleful green eyes at him. "No. I do not want to join you. I'm _busy_."

"Fine then." Davies shrugged at her. "I'll bring you some. Black no sugar right?"

"No. Today I want milk and three sugars. And a chelsea bun. Oh! And a tub of Haagen Daz ice cream! Chocolate of course."

"How do you eat that much and still stay this scrawny?"

"I am not scrawny! And I _do not_ look like a boy!"

"You went undercover as a boy once..."

"Shut up, or I _will_ hurt you."

"Alright, alright! I'm leaving." He put up his hands in a placating manner.

"Good."

Davies walked away, shaking his head. Weird people you met in this business.

NX-SH-NX

When Christine finally managed to stumble into a state of awareness again, it was to find her desk cluttered with wrappers and empty coffee cups and Red Bulls.

Glancing at her watch she realized that she had just lost three whole days to her research into her employer's younger brother. Which was a problem because if the older Holmes was all tightly controlled, behind the curtains menace then the younger one…

Well, the younger one was just a bloody _menace_. Getting into all sorts of trouble, attracting psychos and blowing up public pools. She wasn't sure whether Mycroft wanted her to keep him safe, preserve London or keep him on a fucking leash.

Come to think of it, putting him on a leash might accomplish all that.

A snore to her right and her glock was drawn... pointed at Davies.

Christine scowled. Why Davies insisted on babying her, she would never know. The man was had serious issues. And he insisted on focusing them on her. Like she wasn't one of the most deadly killers out there, but rather the scared little girl from…

Another snore and he shifted in his chair.

Rolling her eyes, Chris stowed her gun and got up to shake his shoulder. The man woke with a start and stared blearily at her.

"Chris? Done with the research then?"

"Yeah. Now go home and get some sleep will you? Hasn't your fiance been breaking down your door?"

"Nope." He said, stretching to get the kinks out of his spine. "Told her I was out of town on business."

"You are aware of the fact that I am not a helpless maiden, right?"

He grinned at her. "Oh, I know that when it comes to a fight you're deadly. But when it comes to your personal care? What would you do without me doing coffee and craving runs?"

"... Okay. Fine. You feed me. Go home. Sleep with your fiance. Have crazy monkey sex!"

"Chris!"

"Okay, okay. Have missionary sex."

"... That's not really any less disturbing. What's your deal with my sex life?"

"Hey, I'm living vicariously through you. Go pick out china and wedding dresses and stuff. I'm going home. To my shower. And clean clothes."

"Alright then." Davies got up and stretched some more. Then he grabbed his car keys and jingled them. "Need a lift?"

"... How did you know?"

"You always seem to total your car in a mission."

"I... damn. I do. Oh well."

Davies merely laughed again and they headed for the car.

"Speaking of cars- I want the new Aston Martin this time. I don't get why they always stick me in the cheap ass cars. I mean, what's the use of being a spy if I don't get the glamorous cars?"

"Protecting your country?"

"What kind of bullshit is that?"

"That's why I joined!"

"Yeah right."

"Why did you join?"

"Too many Bond movies."

NX-SH-NX

When Christine awoke the next morning, she rolled over in her King size bed and stared at the bedside clock.

09:34.

Perfect. She needed to do some serious shopping.

Getting out of bed she padded on bare feet toward her coffee maker, clad only in her boyleg panties and her bra. The coffee maker had of course made a fresh cup as programmed and she filled her huge Garfield mug to the brim. No milk today, but four sugars to get her going.

She opened her fridge and stared at it before closing it. She'd have to go grocery shopping as well. All she had was a salami that was so old it was about to get up and walk out on its own.

Okay. Shopping it was then. After her third cup of coffee. And then she would go in to the office and start making some serious back story.

She'd be cutting off Moriarty's balls soon enough.

When she'd finally finished enough coffee to keep her going through the day, she grabbed her Dolce and Gabanna purse, threw on her leather jacket and her favourite pair of slingbacks and headed out the door.

She reappeared moments later cursing.

She had forgotten pants. Who the hell forgot to put on pants? Sometimes she just wondered whether she should put post-it notes all over her apartment. You know, ones saying 'Remember pants' and 'Don't tell telemarketers that you could make sure their body was never found if they don't shut up this instant'.

That did not end well.

With her legs firmly ensconced in a pair of black skinny jeans she headed back out and caught a taxi.

"Where to then, missy?" The cabby asked, typically chatty. God, she missed having a car.

"Harrods."

"Right ho. Lots of money to be spent at Harrods you know, must be a nice job you got yourself there..."

The cabby kept up a steady stream of words the entire trip there. Chris was just about ready to throttle him when they stopped in front of Harrods. She payed him quickly and stepped into the shopping heaven that was her favourite department store.

She spent the entire morning and a bit of the afternoon looking for the perfect clothes for her mission. Things that would support the back story she had made up. Frumpy jumpers and baggy trousers, coupled with a new frame on her prescription glasses.

Finally, she stepped back into the brisk British afternoon and hailed another cab.

When she arrived back at the office, she put down her bags at her desk and dropped off the bill at Mycroft's secretary (Selena today).

Then she headed for her favourite part of the building- the tech department.

"Morning Olliver!" She sang out, causing the young man to turn toward her.

"Chris! How are you?"

"Great thanks. So, what do you have for me?"

"Ah, some really brilliant tech we just finished. See here? The old pen-is-actually-a weapon trick, with a twist. See, if you press the red ink down, then it lets out a high power lazer. If you press the blue ink down then you get an electric voltage of 2000V. Quite enough to kill someone. And if you depress the green, you get a high pitched sound that will cause the capillaries in the target's brain to explode."

"Uhm..."

"Oh, no. it's perfectly safe, since the nose of the pen directs the sound and voltage in a very concentrated area. As long as you're holding it it gets pinpoint accuracy."

"So what does the black button do?"

"It gives a lovely calligraphy nib with water proof, fade resistant ink."

"... Really."

"Yes. Really. It is, after all, a pen."

"Right. Got anything else?"

"Just the standard things- listening devices, radio shoes, and a new car."

"Really?"

"Yup. Aston Martin Vanquish, tripped out with the latest weaponry. What did you do to get the Bossman to give you that one?"

"The most hellish mission anyone can imagine. But…I'm... going to need a different car."

"What?"

"I know, I know. But I need a van. A really old, beat up van. Like yours! That's perfect!"

"You want to trade your Vanquish for my van?"

"Well... only for the mission."

"No."

"No?"

"I know what you do to cars! And I love Stacey!"

"... Stacey? Really?"

"Shut up."

"Please?"

"No! I love Stacey far too much."

"Look, if I bust her I will... do your bidding for a month."

"Really?"

"Yup. Anything goes. Except sex."

"Damn. Still..."

"It's a pretty sweet deal. Especially since you get such a fancy car..."

"Fine. But not a scratch on her, you hear me?"

"Of course not. Trust me."

"Oh God. Stacey is going to die."

NX-SH-NX

A/N: Alrighty, new story, new fandom. Please note that this is a Sherlock/OC story. It's not going to be a cutesy or a fluffy story. There will be moments of fluff, and my special brand of humour (read: insanity), but in general it will be me going in and hitting these characters with a bat called 'Nightmarish things' (as my beta, the lovely DeadTeenWalking put it) and then I'll sneak past the nurses and poke them with a sharp stick of 'Traumatising past events'.

That said, it will go a lot faster than Black and Blue, so there is action pretty soon in this story by my standards. It is also completely and utterly AU.

I deal in character development, and my plots are strange and twisty. Sherlock and Chris(tine) won't be falling into anything soon. Never mind bed. And there _won't_ be a 'happy ending'. It'll be a hopeful ending.

And now to the WARNINGS: Blood, gore, mind games, mentions of child abuse and inappropriate use of household objects. Not to mention those sticks I mentioned. These parts are all clearly marked. You have been warned, so no blaming me if you read those bits and you get scarred for life.

If you're still reading this then... by all means join me on this twisty road.


	2. Paranoia and psychoanalysis

**Chapter 1**

_Six months later_

"Sherlock..." DI Lestrade tried pleading with the childish man in front of him.

"No." The man adamantly refused to be reasoned with.

"Look, Sherlock. I know you don't like it but we have a very dangerous man on the loose. Any help we can get brings us closer to catching Moriarty."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, I'm not asking you. She's working this case. Trust me- if anyone can find his digital footprint it's this woman."

"I am perfectly capable of catching him myself Lestrade! I hardly need the help of a common criminal."

"She's not a common criminal. She's the best hacker I've ever seen. If she hadn't left that little trace on her latest hack we would never have found her!"

"She _got caught_ Lestrange. How does that make her qualified?"

"And you got yourself blown up in a public pool! How does that make _you_ qualified?"

"I am by far more intelligent than some... ridiculous hacker."

Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his face wearily. "Sherlock- she's working this case. End of story."

Lestrade watched as the man in front of him pouted unashamedly. He was saved from any more arguing by Sally Donovan. She knocked on his door and poked her head into his office.

"Hullo Freak. Sir, she's ready for you."

"Thank you Donovan. Sherlock..." he pleaded with the man.

"Fine! But I will analyze every aspect of her, and if I get even a whiff that she's not who she says she is..."

"Then I won't let her on the case Sherlock. Just... don't let your paranoia get to you, ok?"

Sherlock merely sniffed at him, steadfastly refusing to admit how much the incident with Moriarty had affected him. He was now paranoid about everything and everyone, excepting John and Lestrade.

Lestrade headed to Donovan's desk. A young woman sat there, chewing her nails. Her feathery brown bob was pointing every which way and her large green eyes were obscured by round-framed glasses. She was wearing a frumpy brown sweater with a hood and a pair of khaki cargo pants, all at least two sizes too big for her petite frame.

She started to get up when she saw him, then made to sit down, staying in limbo for a few moments before plonking back into her seat. She slouched low into the chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Miss Taylor, I presume." Lestrade asked as he smoothly slid behind Donovan's desk.

"Yes." Her voice was clipped.

"I assume that Sergeant Donovan has explained your situation to you."

"I help you catch a dangerous criminal, you don't press charges."

"Yes, well. That's sorted then. What's your answer?"

The woman threw him an incredulous look. "I don't really want to go to jail. Orange is not really my colour."

"Good. Oh for-! Sherlock!" Lestrade let out an exasperated breath.

The man in question had swooped down on the young woman and promptly begun probing her with his eyes. He could see the man cataloging every detail about her. The woman, to her credit, merely looked vaguely unnerved by this and turned questioning eyes on him.

"It's all right- he's with us. We just need to be sure who you are, before we let you help with this case."

"So he's what? Going to stare the truth out of me?"

"No, I am going to use the information gathered by staring at you to tell your entire life story. Does that make you nervous?"

"Uhm, yeah. Isn't that kind of... creepy?"

"No. It is my job."

"Creepy job then." She muttered, hunching over even more as she tried to ignore Sherlock.

"Right then, Miss Taylor..."

"Chris. Everyone just calls me Chris."

"A nickname undoubtedly alluding to your lack of womanly curves and tomboyish tendencies. Not to mention the fact that your father always rather wanted a boy, and so pressured you into doing things a son would do. You are a Dan- second or third level- in capoeira, you were a national schools champion boxer and you also have extensive experience in fencing."

"Your mother died when you were young, and your father remarried. You have a younger brother, but you're not close. You hack because you enjoy the challenge, not for the money. You have a successful business which does tech support for several banks, and you recently signed a contract for the government."

"You have your own business because you despise being told what to do and when. You're also rather a good actress, Drama having been one of your favourite subjects in school."

"You're kidding me, right?" Chris turned to Lestrade.

"No. He can actually tell that from the way you do everything."

"Hm. Not an open book, but hardly a particularly interesting one once you've cracked it." Sherlock sniffed.

"Excuse me? Are you calling me boring?" Chris asked, clearly insulted.

"Don't worry. He thinks we're all boring." Lestrade hurried to assure her. She shot Sherlock another baleful glare.

"I am _not_ boring."

"Yes you are. Dull, boring, run-of-the-mill." The consulting detective flipped his hand dismissively.

"Why you...!"

"So, I take it she can work the case then, Sherlock?" Lestrade jumped in before there could be any bloodshed.

"If she _has_ to." The detective grumped.

"Good. Now, play nice children. That includes you, Donovan." He ignored her outraged spluttering and handed the file over to Chris. "Here, we need you to find this man."

Chris gave him an incredulous look. "What- just like that?"

"I thought you said were the best?" Sherlock ribbed her. She turned a glare at him.

"I'm brilliant, and yes, I am the best. But I need this thing called _time_. And preferably somewhere I can start tracking the guy."

"He left messages on Sherlock's blog." Lestrade told her.

"How long ago was that?" She asked.

"Around six months ago."

"Six-? You are aware that in computer terms that's like... mesozoic era long ago. Right? I can't do anything with information that old."

"Then what use are you?" Sherlock snarked.

"Excuse me, but I don't see you being any more useful. Or closer to finding him."

"_I_ can be useful."

"Yes. As bait."

"Excuse me- but no. Sherlock is never going to be bait. At all. Ever." Lestrade interrupted them.

Chris turns her green eyes on him, her mouth forming a slight 'oh'.

"I think that is a decision I can make for myself, thank you!" Sherlock grouches.

"No Sherlock, you can't. Because you insist on making stupid decisions like going to meet a criminal mastermind in a public pool with highly classified information and getting blown up!" Lestrade ranted at him.

"... I'm missing something, aren't I?" Chris asked.

"Yes. But the point is, Sherlock is _never_ bait. It ends badly. Trust me."

"I can't. I have serious trust issues. Nothing personal." She shrugged at him.

"Yes, well. Let's just leave it at that."

"Well... We could always set up a dummy blog."

"A what now?" Lestrade wondered out loud.

"A dummy blog. We pretend to be _Sherlock_ and blog about... whatever you would blog about. But the site would automatically log and ping everyone accessing it. That way, if he posts again I'll at least be able to identify his digital fingerprint. After that it's a lot easier to track him."

"How do you know he's after Sherlock?" Lestrade asked in suspicion.

"After that little speech? Hardly a large leap in logic." She shrugged it off. Sherlock snorted in agreement.

"I already have a blog." Sherlock said, bored.

Chris turned to him again. "Really? Well, then I can build a dummy blog _over_ the current one. It'll take some time, but it will be worth it. You'll need to lie low until it's finished, though." She gave him a hard look.

Sherlock threw Lestrade a disgruntled look.

It seemed he didn't like the new member of the team.

NX-SH-NX

The moment she got to the apartment she was renting for this mission, Chris got herself out of the frumpy jumper and cargo pants.

Yes, she knew they were necessary, but damn. Sometimes she was just a little _too_ good.

She threw on a promotional t-shirt for World of Warcraft which was at least four sizes too big for her and grabbed the bottle of vodka from her shelf as she headed for the couch (a space invaders one that was surprisinly comfy) she had requisitioned from Olliver's apartment.

If there was one thing that Christine knew about creating a new identity, it was that it needed to have all the major parts of your personality incorporated into it. It was the little details that made it work- small mannerisms were far more easy to learn. Changing your entire personality was a lot harder- easier to fuck up.

The result was that she was leasing this apartment, and had been living in them for the past five months. Ever since her first big 'score' as a hacker. She'd been sitting around catching a rather terminal case of geek from the guys in the tech department every damn day.

They'd made her watch Star Wars, Star Trek and Firefly. They'd started her on one of their old Ataris and worked her up to the new gen consoles (her favourite was the Wii- but Olliver had insisted that after Assasin's Creed she'd go for the PS3). They'd had her playing Counter Strike and World of Warcraft and just generally anything that they deemed necessary to her cover.

They'd taught her to build a computer from scratch and made her practice it until she could assemble the whole bloody thing in under half an hour. They'd told her in no uncertain terms that anything pertaining to Nickelback and Shania Twain and most classical music were to be left behind for the likes of Metal bands. And the only metal band they could agree on was Nightwish- apparently all the best hackers listened to Nightwish.

They'd drilled basic code into her head until she wanted to scream.

She had a sneaking suspicion that they'd enjoyed themselves a bit _too_ much, especially since she was pretty sure Sherlock Holmes wouldn't get half the references...

But the real fun had been going shopping for nicknacks for the apartment.

Olliver had been adamant about doing the shopping online. At a place called 'This is why I'm broke'. Chris had balked at the idea of shopping for her _living environment_ online. She liked lazing around in physical shops, thank you.

That was until she saw the coffee table aquarium.

Somewhere during this whole thing she'd realized that she might have been supressing a bit of geek in her, but the coffee table at least seemed more bachelor pad like. So she'd bought the damn thing. She needed to keep a tad bit of sanity, she thought as she reached for the fish food.

The point being, they'd all rather enjoyed shopping for various pieces of geek memorabilia. She seemed to have a lot more Star Wars paraphernalia though, if only because Lego had a lot of models to build and she was a sucker for model building. By the time they were done she was settled into the geek equivalent of heaven.

On the suckers she robbed's bills of course.

Once she'd settled onto the couch and poured herself a liberal amount of alcohol she pulled her green Alienware laptop towards her, from its position on the coffee table, and settled it on her lap.

Hm, a dummy website. She'd already figured out (with a lot of help from the techies at the office) that a dummy website would be their best bet. But now she had to figure out which programming language would be best to set up the dummy site.

She threw a glance at the coding help books that had seemed to pile up in the six months she had been living here. It was starting to look pretty much the same as all her other apartments- messy. With books pertaining to her current personality crammed into the single bookcase, stacked on her bedside table and on the floor.

Another glance at the books and she opened her IM.

_Olliver- what language should I use on the dummy site?_

A swig of vodka and then her computer beeped at her.

_For websites? Html or CSS._

… _Which one. I'm tired, been trailing SH and the Yard all day. _

_HTML. _

_See- that wasn't so hard, was it? _

_Yes, yes. Big bad agent. I have a life too you know. _

_Then go live it. I give you my permission. :D_

_Ass. _

Chris grinned as she exited the IM window and leaned over to retrieve her HTML code manual, covering her ears with her pink Skullcandy earphones. Seconds later Nightwish blared from the speakers.

It was time to get some serious programming done.

NX-SH-NX

John Watson knew, from the moans of the violin upstairs when he came home from the surgery, that he was in for a hellish night.

Mrs Hudson gave him a sandwich to give him strength to handle whatever was awaiting him upstairs and then shooed him up there with a hint about her not being able to sleep, even with her soothers.

"Uh, Sherlock, everything, uhm, good then?" John asked as he poked his head into the living room.

"No it bloody well is not!" Sherlock exploded at him, the bow in his hand immediately pointing at John's solar plexus in a guilt-placing manner. "And where have you been?"

"I... Sherlock, I was at _work_."

"Ugh, work, work, work, work! How boring! Do you not see John? Can you not understand? Can none of you understand? Am I the only intelligent person left upon this earth?" Sherlock went into a dramatic tyrade before he threw himself onto the couch.

"... This is something about Moriarty, isn't it?"

"No." Sherlock continued to sulk.

"Right. I'll just put the kettle on then." John shrugged. Heading for the kitchen, before it occurred to him that perhaps it had something to do with Lestrade- if so the man would probably have texted him a warning.

The problem with that was that John hadn't had a chance to check today, since he'd been stuck staring at post-nasal drips and jumping at every shadow.

John rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. Sherlock had been a true trial these past months. He'd been constantly on John's case, loaded gun at the ready at the slightest shadows, saying things about how Sarah could be one of Moriarty's agents.

Sherlock, of course, refused to admit to any of these problems. Wouldn't hear a word of what John was trying to tell him, because it was absolutely unacceptable that he should have read anyone so wrongly, but having an emotional fallout because of it was simply not done. It was unacceptable, and completely outside of his frame of reference- Sherlock had always been smarter than _anyone_ else. Oh sure, they might have been able to play the game for a while, depending mostly on how much of a head start they'd had on the Consulting Detective.

But he'd _always_ won.

And he _never_ read people that wrongly.

Well, obviously he had, and they had both nearly gotten killed when the pool was blown up... But the point was simply that normal people knew that they were going to screw up. They learned from an early age to get up, dust themselves off and go on without losing too much faith in themselves.

But Sherlock... well. He'd never learned those lessons. It was his first truly spectacular failure- other people got drunk or tattooed or pregnant- but _Sherlock_ put a huge dent in London's real estate and caused people to die.

When he'd explained it in that way to Sarah- bless her, she was a brilliant woman, though obviously somewhat insane herself for still being with him- she'd just given him a thoughtful look.

A few hours later she'd given him the phone number of a Dr M Morstan, the UK's leading expert on socio-paths. Though, she'd later explained to him over the phone, she rather specialised in helping the family of the socio-path.

It was perfect, and he had his first appointment tomorrow. Sherlock need never know.

But John needed to do something about this new, skittish Sherlock.

This wasn't the same brand of madness that had first drawn John to him. This was something much closer to breaking point- and Lestrange had agreed with him on that point. He'd even pointed out his fear that Sherlock may turn back to drugs.

That had shaken John to the core.

So now the two had a spoken agreement: They would keep Sherlock occupied and in their sight as much as possible.

Finally taking out his phone John saw that there was indeed a text from Lestrade waiting for him. A guilty flush flooded his body before he reminded it that he had the right to a life damn it.

_Sent him home- he's in a bit of a snit. _

_GL_

John sighed. Sure, the D.I. got him into a snit, and John had to deal with the fallout. He wondered what the man had done to Sherlock, who had been even more child-like in his sudden uncertainty than before. It was like he'd suddenly regressed to a frighteningly brilliant two year old.

Still, no use for it. He had to get in there and convince Sherlock to go back to Scotland Yard tomorrow.

He made their brews of choice and headed for the living room, where Sherlock was once again staring morosely at the ceiling.

"He's replacing me John."

For a moment the comment caught him off guard- the question of 'Who?' was on his lips before he remembered the text Lestrade had sent him.

Cold rage doused John at the thought that Lestrade could do something so mean and callous... until he remembered that this was the man who had admitted to John that he was afraid of once more losing Sherlock to the streets and the drugs.

"What makes you say that?" John had learned this particular trick from Sarah, who had taken a course in trauma counselling once.

"He's brought in my replacement! Made me meet her! _Pretended_ that he was merely getting her help on the case! _Pretended_ to listen to my analysis." Sherlock promptly turned his back to John, who had taken a seat in the chair with the union jack on it. "They're all laughing at me." The mumbled words came to John, a strange reluctance in them.

John sighed again. "Sherlock, has it occurred to you that we're scared?"

That set the other man off again- causing him to jump to his feet. "Yes! Scared because I cannot protect you! Scared because my greatest weapon has been beaten! Scared because I am... I am... intrinsically flawed." The man deflated back into the couch cushions.

John opened his mouth to retort, but promptly shut it again. "Sherlock..." He tried, before he cleared his throat. "Sherlock, you're not intrinsically flawed. You're not broken and you are still the single most brilliant man I know. This was not your fault-"

"Don't say that! It is an inherently common and dull phrase!" Sherlock snapped.

"Then what do you want me to say? It's the truth Sherlock! You're human! You make mistakes!"

"I lose the game! I... I lose the game. I _cannot_ lose the game John."

"Sherlock, you're going to lose sometimes. It's just one of those things. Other people have t just move on with their lives!"

"Other people's lives are _boring_, nothing of international interest happens when they lose!"

There was silence between the two men for a moment and then...

"I'm going out." Sherlock said. And John couldn't think of a thing to stop him.

NX-SH-NX

Meanwhile, in the non-existent offices of a very much non-existent government agency, Daniel Davies was cracking his spine after having spent the afternoon getting to grips with his paperwork from his last mission.

And Chris's paperwork from her last mission because she'd claimed that she was getting metacarpal syndrome from all the 'geekiness she'd been exposed to'. They hadn't mentioned the fact that she was _supposed_ to have handed in this paperwork before she'd started her current mission.

So now he'd done two lots of paperwork, and he was frankly tired. He'd go home to his fiance early today, maybe even do some things that would make Chris happy to be living vicariously through him.

That thought put a smile on his face and he switched off his computer, turning around only to realize that Mycroft's PA (Aurora today) was standing behind him. Her eyes left her Blackberry for all of five seconds and he knew immediately that something had gone terribly wrong.

She turned around and walked him to the same incident report room where Chris had received her assignment all those months ago.

Mycroft Holmes was standing in front of the big screen again.

Daniel gave up on his plans for the evening.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" He asked, unconciously falling back into his military pose.

"Ah, Mister Davies. Indeed. It would seem we have a... _situation_." Mycroft sniffed, as though such things caused distress to his delicate sensibilities.

"Indeed sir?" Daniel queried.

"Yes. It would seem one Mister Taylor has escaped."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Dun dun duuuuuuun... :D Okay- I have to admit that I enjoyed imagining Chris's apartment. Probably more than I should have. But I don't think an apartment can be a Mary Sue... Right?

Thanks for my reviewers! Hopefully my first foray into Sherlock fanfiction will not irreparably cause psychological damage.

As to Sherlock and John's scene... Well, I think that Sherlock would probably react in that he'd become more paranoid and a little less certain of himself. Remember that he analyzed Moriarty completely wrongly- that's bound to cause uncertainty and paranoia which he doesn't know how to handle.

And Dr M. Morstan? Yup. You guessed it- Mary Morstan will make an appearance in this story.

Next chapter: How long can Chris listen to Nightwish? Where does Sherlock end up? Will John and Dr Morstan fall instantly in love? Why is Moriarty laughing? Coming up next!


	3. Fisticuffs and Burn Notices

**Chapter 1**

_Six months later_

"Sherlock..." DI Lestrade tried pleading with the large, coat swirling child in front of him.

"No." The man adamantly refused, face hard and mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Look, Sherlock. I know you don't like it but we have a very dangerous man on the loose. Any help we can get brings us closer to catching Moriarty." Lestrade reasoned.

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock…" Right, kiddie gloves off then. Lestrade was putting his foot down. "I'm not asking you. She's working this case. Trust me- if anyone can find his digital footprint it's this woman."

"I am perfectly capable of catching him myself Lestrade! I hardly need the help of a common criminal."

"She's not a common criminal. She's the best hacker I've ever seen. If she hadn't left that little trace on her latest hack we would never have found her!"

"She _got caught_ Lestrange. How does that make her qualified?"

"And you got yourself blown up in a public pool! How does that make _you_ qualified?"

"I am by far more intelligent than some... ridiculous hacker."

Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his face wearily. "Sherlock- she's working this case. End of story."

Lestrade watched as the man in front of him pouted unashamedly. He was saved from any more arguing by Sally Donovan. She knocked on his door and poked her head into his office.

"Hullo Freak. Sir, she's ready for you."

"Thank you Donovan. Sherlock..." he pleaded with the man.

"Oh, fine!" This was said with a flourish that and the distinct tone of voice of someone allowing something to happen. Which, Greg felt inclined to point out, was _not_ the case here. "

But I will analyze every aspect of her, and if I get even a whiff that she's not who she says she is..."

"Then I won't let her on the case Sherlock. Just... don't let your paranoia get to you, ok?"

Sherlock merely sniffed at him, steadfastly refusing to admit how much the incident with Moriarty had affected him. How the paranoia made him even more flighty, more likely to keep strangers at bay, more likely to go in for the verbal _kill_ whenever he could.

Christ, this was a mess.

Lestrade headed to Donovan's desk. A young woman sat there, chewing her nails. Her feathery brown bob was pointing every which way and her large green eyes were obscured by round-framed glasses. She was wearing a frumpy brown sweater with a hood and a pair of khaki cargo pants, all at least two sizes too big for her petite frame.

She started to get up when she saw him, then made to sit down, staying in limbo for a few moments before plonking back into her seat. She slouched low into the chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Miss Taylor, I presume." Lestrade asked as he smoothly slid behind Donovan's desk.

"Yes." Her voice was clipped.

"I assume that Sergeant Donovan has explained your situation to you."

"I help you catch a dangerous criminal, you don't press charges."

"Yes, well. That's sorted then. What's your answer?"

The woman threw him an incredulous look. "I don't fancy going to jail. Orange isn't really my colour."

"Good. Oh for-! Sherlock!" Lestrade let out an exasperated breath.

The man in question had swooped down on the young woman and promptly begun _sniffing_ her.

He could see the man cataloging every detail about her. The woman, to her credit, merely looked vaguely unnerved by this and turned questioning eyes on him.

"It's all right- he's with us. We just need to be sure who you are, before we let you help with this case."

"So he's what? Going to sniff the truth out of me? Is he one of those genetically modified people the governments are working on?"

Donovan snickered at this. Greg just rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Of course she was a conspiracy nut. Of bloody course.

"No, I am going to use the information gathered by using all of my senses on you to tell your entire life story. Does that make you nervous?"

"Uhm, yeah. Isn't that kind of... creepy?"

"No. It is my job."

"Creepy job then." She muttered, hunching over even more as she tried to ignore Sherlock.

"Right then, Miss Taylor..."

"Chris. Everyone just calls me Chris."

"A nickname undoubtedly alluding to your lack of womanly curves and tomboyish tendencies. Not to mention the fact that your father always rather wanted a boy, and so pressured you into doing things a son would do. You are a Dan- second or third level- in capoeira, you were a national schools champion boxer and you also have extensive experience in fencing."

"Your mother died when you were young, and your father remarried. You have a younger brother, but you're not close. You hack because you enjoy the challenge, not for the money. You have a successful business which does tech support for several banks, and you recently signed a contract for the government."

"You have your own business because you despise being told what to do and when. You're also rather a good actress, Drama having been one of your favourite subjects in school."

"You're kidding me, right?" Chris turned to Lestrade.

"No. He can actually tell that from the way you do everything."

"Hm. Not an open book, but hardly a particularly interesting one once you've cracked it." Sherlock sniffed.

"Excuse me? Are you calling me boring?" Chris asked, clearly insulted.

"Don't worry. He thinks we're all boring." Lestrade hurried to assure her. She shot Sherlock another baleful glare.

"I am _not_ boring."

"Yes you are. Dull, boring, run-of-the-mill." The consulting detective flipped his hand dismissively.

"Why you...!"

"So, I take it she can work the case then, Sherlock?" Lestrade jumped in before there could be any bloodshed.

"If she _has_ to." The detective grumped.

"Good. Now, play nice children. That includes you, Donovan." He ignored her outraged spluttering and handed the file over to Chris. "Here, we need you to find this man."

Chris gave him an incredulous look. "What- just like that?"

"I thought you said were the best?" Sherlock ribbed her. She turned a glare at him.

"I'm brilliant, and yes, I am the best. But I need this thing called _time_. And preferably somewhere I can start tracking the guy."

"He left messages on Sherlock's blog." Lestrade told her.

"How long ago was that?" She asked.

"Around six months ago."

"Six-? You are aware that in computer terms that's like... mesozoic era long ago. Right? I can't do anything with information that old."

"Then what use are you?" Sherlock snarked.

"Excuse me, but I don't see you being any more useful. Or closer to finding him."

"_I_ can be useful."

"Yes. As bait."

"Excuse me- but no. Sherlock is never going to be bait. At all. Ever." Lestrade interrupted them.

Chris turns her green eyes on him, her mouth forming a slight 'oh'.

"I think that is a decision I can make for myself, thank you!" Sherlock grouches.

"No Sherlock, you can't. Because you insist on making stupid decisions like going to meet a criminal mastermind in a public pool with highly classified information and getting blown up!" Lestrade ranted at him.

"... I'm missing something, aren't I?" Chris asked.

"Yes. But the point is, Sherlock is _never_ bait. It ends badly. Trust me."

"I can't. I have serious trust issues. Nothing personal." She shrugged at him.

"Yes, well. Let's just leave it at that."

"Well... We could always set up a dummy blog."

"A what now?" Lestrade wondered out loud.

"A dummy blog. We pretend to be _Sherlock_ and blog about... whatever you would blog about. But the site would automatically log and ping everyone accessing it. That way, if he posts again I'll at least be able to identify his digital fingerprint. After that it's a lot easier to track him."

"How do you know he's after Sherlock?" Lestrade asked in suspicion.

"After that little speech? Hardly a large leap in logic." She shrugged it off. Sherlock snorted in agreement.

"I already have a blog." Sherlock said, bored.

Chris turned to him again. "Really? Well, then I can build a dummy blog _over_ the current one. It'll take some time, but it will be worth it. You'll need to lie low until it's finished, though." She gave him a hard look.

Sherlock threw Lestrade a disgruntled look.

It seemed he didn't like the new member of the team.

NX-SH-NX

The moment she got to the apartment she was renting for this mission, Chris got herself out of the frumpy jumper and cargo pants.

Yes, she knew they were necessary, but damn. Sometimes she was just a little _too_ good.

She threw on a promotional t-shirt for World of Warcraft which was at least four sizes too big for her and grabbed the bottle of vodka from her shelf as she headed for the couch (a space invaders one that was surprisingly comfy) she had requisitioned from Olliver's apartment.

If there was one thing that Christine knew about creating a new identity, it was that it needed to have all the major parts of your personality incorporated into it. It was the little details that made it work- small mannerisms were far more easy to learn. Changing your entire personality was a lot harder- easier to fuck up.

The result was that she was leasing this apartment, and had been living in them for the past five months. Ever since her first big 'score' as a hacker. She'd been sitting around catching a rather terminal case of geek from the guys in the tech department every damn day.

They'd made her watch Star Wars, Star Trek and Firefly. They'd started her on one of their old Ataris and worked her up to the new gen consoles (her favourite was the Wii- but Olliver had insisted that after Assasin's Creed she'd go for the PS3). They'd had her playing Counter Strike and World of Warcraft and just generally anything that they deemed necessary to her cover.

They'd taught her to build a computer from scratch and made her practice it until she could assemble the whole bloody thing in under half an hour. They'd told her in no uncertain terms that anything pertaining to Nickelback and Shania Twain and most classical music were to be left behind for the likes of Metal bands. And the only metal band they could agree on was Nightwish- apparently all the best hackers listened to Nightwish.

They'd drilled basic code into her head until she wanted to scream.

She had a sneaking suspicion that they'd enjoyed themselves a bit _too_ much, especially since she was pretty sure Sherlock Holmes wouldn't get half the references...

But the real fun had been going shopping for knickknacks for the apartment.

Olliver had been adamant about doing the shopping online. At a place called 'This is why I'm broke'. Chris had balked at the idea of shopping for her _living environment_ online. She liked lazing around in physical shops, thank you.

That was until she saw the coffee table aquarium.

Somewhere during this whole thing she'd realized that she might have been supressing a bit of geek in her, but the coffee table at least seemed more bachelor pad like. So she'd bought the damn thing. She needed to keep a tad bit of sanity, she thought as she reached for the fish food.

The point being, they'd all rather enjoyed shopping for various pieces of geek memorabilia. She seemed to have a lot more Star Wars paraphernalia though, if only because Lego had a lot of models to build and she was a sucker for model building. By the time they were done she was settled into the geek equivalent of heaven.

On the suckers she robbed's bills of course.

Once she'd settled onto the couch and poured herself a liberal amount of alcohol she pulled her green Alienware laptop towards her, from its position on the coffee table, and settled it on her lap.

Hm, a dummy website. She'd already figured out (with a lot of help from the techies at the office) that a dummy website would be their best bet. But now she had to figure out which programming language would be best to set up the dummy site.

She threw a glance at the coding help books that had seemed to pile up in the six months she had been living here. It was starting to look pretty much the same as all her other apartments- messy. With books pertaining to her current personality crammed into the single bookcase, stacked on her bedside table and on the floor.

Another glance at the books and she opened her IM.

_Olliver- what language should I use on the dummy site?_

A swig of vodka and then her computer beeped at her.

_For websites? Html or CSS._

… _Which one. I'm tired, been trailing SH and the Yard all day._

_HTML._

_See- that wasn't so hard, was it?_

_Yes, yes. Big bad agent. I have a life too you know._

_Then go live it. I give you my permission. :D_

_Ass._

Chris grinned as she exited the IM window and leaned over to retrieve her HTML code manual, covering her ears with her pink Skullcandy earphones. Seconds later Nightwish blared from the speakers.

It was time to get some serious programming done.

NX-SH-NX

John Watson knew, from the moans of the violin upstairs when he came home from the surgery, that he was in for a hellish night.

Mrs Hudson gave him a sandwich to give him strength to handle whatever was awaiting him upstairs and then shooed him up there with a hint about her not being able to sleep, even with her soothers.

"Uh, Sherlock, everything, uhm, good then?" John asked as he poked his head into the living room.

"No it bloody well is not!" Sherlock exploded at him, the bow in his hand immediately pointing at John's solar plexus in a guilt-placing manner. "And where have you been?"

"I... Sherlock, I was at _work_."

"Ugh, work, work, work, work! How boring! Do you not see John? Can you not understand? Can none of you understand? Am I the only intelligent person left upon this earth?" Sherlock went into a dramatic tirade before he threw himself onto the couch.

"... This is something about Moriarty, isn't it?"

"No." Sherlock continued to sulk.

"Right. I'll just put the kettle on then." John shrugged. Heading for the kitchen, before it occurred to him that perhaps it had something to do with Lestrade- if so the man would probably have texted him a warning.

The problem with that was that John hadn't had a chance to check today, since he'd been stuck staring at post-nasal drips and jumping at every shadow.

John rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. Sherlock had been a true trial these past months. He'd been constantly on John's case, loaded gun at the ready at the slightest shadows, saying things about how Sarah could be one of Moriarty's agents.

Sherlock, of course, refused to admit to any of these problems. Wouldn't hear a word of what John was trying to tell him, because it was absolutely unacceptable that he should have read anyone so wrongly, but having an emotional fallout because of it was simply not done. It was unacceptable, and completely outside of his frame of reference- Sherlock had always been smarter than _anyone_ else. Oh sure, they might have been able to play the game for a while, depending mostly on how much of a head start they'd had on the Consulting Detective.

But he'd _always_ won.

And he _never_ read people that wrongly.

Well, obviously he had, and they had both nearly gotten killed when the pool was blown up... But the point was simply that normal people knew that they were going to screw up. They learned from an early age to get up, dust themselves off and go on without losing too much faith in themselves.

But Sherlock... well. He'd never learned those lessons. It was his first truly spectacular failure- other people got drunk or tattooed or pregnant- but _Sherlock_ put a huge dent in London's real estate and caused people to die.

When he'd explained it in that way to Sarah- bless her, she was a brilliant woman, though obviously somewhat insane herself for still being with him- she'd just given him a thoughtful look.

A few hours later she'd given him the phone number of a Dr M Morstan, the UK's leading expert on socio-paths. Though, she'd later explained to him over the phone, she rather specialised in helping the family of the socio-path.

It was perfect, and he had his first appointment tomorrow. Sherlock need never know.

But John needed to do something about this new, skittish Sherlock.

This wasn't the same brand of madness that had first drawn John to him. This was something much closer to breaking point- and Lestrade had agreed with him on that point. He'd even pointed out his fear that Sherlock may turn back to drugs.

That had shaken John to the core.

So now the two had a spoken agreement: They would keep Sherlock occupied and in their sight as much as possible.

Finally taking out his phone John saw that there was indeed a text from Lestrade waiting for him. A guilty flush flooded his body before he reminded it that he had the right to a life damn it.

_Sent him home- he's in a bit of a snit._

_GL_

John sighed. Sure, the D.I. got him into a snit, and John had to deal with the fallout. He wondered what the man had done to Sherlock, who had been even more child-like in his sudden uncertainty than before. It was like he'd suddenly regressed to a frighteningly brilliant two year old.

Still, no use for it. He had to get in there and convince Sherlock to go back to Scotland Yard tomorrow.

He made their brews of choice and headed for the living room, where Sherlock was once again staring morosely at the ceiling.

"He's replacing me John."

For a moment the comment caught him off guard- the question of 'Who?' was on his lips before he remembered the text Lestrade had sent him.

Cold rage doused John at the thought that Lestrade could do something so mean and callous... until he remembered that this was the man who had admitted to John that he was afraid of once more losing Sherlock to the streets and the drugs.

"What makes you say that?" John had learned this particular trick from Sarah, who had taken a course in trauma counselling once.

"He's brought in my replacement! Made me meet her! _Pretended_ that he was merely getting her help on the case! _Pretended_ to listen to my analysis." Sherlock promptly turned his back to John, who had taken a seat in the chair with the union jack on it. "They're all laughing at me." The mumbled words came to John, a strange reluctance in them.

John sighed again. "Sherlock, has it occurred to you that we're scared?"

That set the other man off again- causing him to jump to his feet. "Yes! Scared because I cannot protect you! Scared because my greatest weapon has been beaten! Scared because I am... I am... intrinsically flawed." The man deflated back into the couch cushions.

John opened his mouth to retort, but promptly shut it again. "Sherlock..." He tried, before he cleared his throat. "Sherlock, you're not intrinsically flawed. You're not broken and you are still the single most brilliant man I know. This was not your fault-"

"Don't say that! It is an inherently common and dull phrase!" Sherlock snapped.

"Then what do you want me to say? It's the truth Sherlock! You're human! You make mistakes!"

"I lose the game! I... I lose the game. I _cannot_ lose the game John."

"Sherlock, you're going to lose sometimes. It's just one of those things. Other people have t just move on with their lives!"

"Other people's lives are _boring_, nothing of international interest happens when they lose!"

There was silence between the two men for a moment and then...

"I'm going out." Sherlock said. And John couldn't think of a thing to stop him.

NX-SH-NX

Meanwhile, in the non-existent offices of a very much non-existent government agency, Daniel Davies was cracking his spine after having spent the afternoon getting to grips with his paperwork from his last mission.

And Chris's paperwork from her last mission because she'd claimed that she was getting metacarpal syndrome from all the 'geekiness she'd been exposed to'. They hadn't mentioned the fact that she was _supposed_ to have handed in this paperwork before she'd started her current mission.

So now he'd done two lots of paperwork, and he was frankly tired. He'd go home to his fiancé early today, maybe even do some things that would make Chris happy to be living vicariously through him.

That thought put a smile on his face and he switched off his computer, turning around only to realize that Mycroft's PA (Aurora today) was standing behind him. Her eyes left her Blackberry for all of five seconds and he knew immediately that something had gone terribly wrong.

She turned around and walked him to the same incident report room where Chris had received her assignment all those months ago.

Mycroft Holmes was standing in front of the big screen again.

Daniel gave up on his plans for the evening.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" He asked, unconciously falling back into his military pose.

"Ah, Mister Davies. Indeed. It would seem we have a... _situation_." Mycroft sniffed, as though such things caused distress to his delicate sensibilities.

"Indeed sir?" Daniel queried.

"Yes. It would seem one Mister Taylor has escaped."

**A/N:** Dun dun duuuuuuun... :D Okay- I have to admit that I enjoyed imagining Chris's apartment. Probably more than I should have. But I don't think an apartment can be a Mary Sue... Right?

Thanks for my reviewers! Hopefully my first foray into Sherlock fanfiction will not irreparably cause psychological damage (but I'm not holding my breath).

As to Sherlock and John's scene... Haha. Maybe the emotions didn't happen exactly my way, but there were plenty of Sherlock feels in S2. Just saying.

And Dr M. Morstan? Yup. You guessed it- Mary Morstan will make an appearance in this story. Somewhere.


	4. The Barking German Shepard

**Chapter 3**

This mission was going to be the death of her, she just knew it.

Chris huffed out an irritable breath as she typed furiously at the keys, her thoughts going in ever depressing circles.

Like how she'd laughed at Charles when he'd predicted his own demise.

He'd been one of her first acquaintances back when she'd been greener than the countryside. He was decent enough- but his baking was heavenly.

So when he'd pitched one day with a basket of rather delectable fairy cakes and promptly announced his own death she'd laughed at him and promptly devoured the cakes. When she asked him what made him think he was going to die he'd shrugged and said he just had a feeling.

He never made it back after his last mission.

_And look at me now, I have the same certainty as he did back then. I'm such a fucking idiot._

"Here." A mug of coffee was shoved unceremoniously at her and she grabbed it out of reflex.

Sally Donovan smiled at her. Chris nearly had a heart attack.

Sally Donovan never smiled at her.

Chris wasn't sure she ever smiled at anyone, never mind getting them coffee.

"Uhm, thanks?" Chris said as she surreptitiously wondered whether she could find some way to detect poison with her nose. Undoubtedly the Holmes brothers could, but she wasn't all that good.

"Well, you did get a Freak-free week. We felt we owed you."

Wait- what? A Freak-free week? Chris felt her hackles rise.

"Seriously?" She asked.

"Yeah, we all really do appreciate it. For a criminal you're not too bad." She was still smiling at Chris.

"Uh, okay." Chris hedged, not quite sure how she felt about this, and even less sure about how to handle it in her cover.

Dissing the Boss's brother wasn't a good thing.

But it could ingratiate her with, oh, the entire Yard.

She decided to just give her a barely-there grin, the kind that generally had people who knew her running for their lives.

"Ugh. That man- he gets off on it, you know, the crimes and the killing. We've got a bet going about when he's gonna be the one to put the body there." Sally said with a flourish. "Want to join in?"

"I think I'll skip it." Shit, Mycroft was worrying about the wrong people, he should be worrying about the entire Yard.

Except for Lestrade- the man seemed honestly fond of Sherlock.

"Alright, still, I think you won everyone's respect with that move."

"So why don't you do it then?" Chris sighed in irritation. She'd hardly got into the spat for any other reason than that the man was trying her patience, and she tended to believe in the Good Old Fashioned way of doing things.

You piss me off, I hit you and when we're done we go to the pub for a couple of pints. Loser buys.

None of this backstabbing business.

"Are you kidding? Lestrade would have my hide! You are in the unique position to make Sherlock Holmes's life miserable! What I wouldn't give to be able to do that…"

Shit.

Why did the woman have to go and say _that_?

Because it was true- she was in a position to make the man miserable. And she didn't really handle things like that very well.

Okay, she tended to handle it all very badly.

The thought reared its ugly head- what would it be like to crush something so singularly brilliant and exceptional? What would it be like to make a man who was so uniquely fascinating and infuriating, push all of his buttons, and make him beg for release?

Because she _could_.

And there it was- that darkness that always whispered to her in such a seductive voice, the one that she generally allowed to fly about unchecked because in her job it usually helped.

She could take his brightness and snuff it out completely.

It would be so easy- and she'd be able to justify it all as revenge or being for his protection or any one of a thousand reasons.

God, it would be so easy.

"Hullo? Chris?" Sally Donovan was snapping her fingers in front of Chris's face to try and bring her back to the real world.

"Uh, yeah. I guess he would. I... uh... I need to... go get some stuff. I'll be in tomorrow again- bye and thanks for the coffee!" She had practically manhandled the started woman out of the door with one hand, threw on her coat with the other and furiously shoved those thoughts into the back of her mind and promptly labeled the box they were in "DO NOT OPEN!" with her mind.

She needed some sanity.

She needed some ridiculous do-gooder.

She needed Daniel Davies.

NX-SH-NX

Sherlock Holmes rounded on D.I. Dimmock with the same ferocity as a feral cat.

"Tell me, _Detective Inspector_," he spat out, "why you cannot see that this was not a simple suicide? Dear God- you are even more simple than Lestrade!"

"Yes, Mister Holmes, that may be but you _have_ been crashing my crime scenes for a week now." Dimmock sighed in exasperation. Because damn it all to hell, this man was brilliant, but he was such a pain in the arse.

"That, D.I Dimmock, will not be the case for much longer."

"Promise?" Dimmock asked in relief and was rewarded by a humourless smile.

"Not if you phone Lestrade and inform him of your plight, no."

"Now look here Holmes- I hardly need to go running to Lestrade to get rid of you!"

"Is that so? You there- Jenkins. Tell the doctor he's an idiot, your father has cancer, about six months to live if things are to be judged by their looks. But you will not be particularly sad to see him go, will you? No, I imagine the inheritance money is more than enough to sooth any true feelings of loss. And then you will no longer have to deal with his constant proclamations of disappointment with you will you? Of course not. Though you shouldn't blame the man for your drinking problems, all things considered you were always an alcoholic in the making.

All those years spent on the outside looking in, until you discovered alcohol and what a lovely, _entertaining_ drunk you were. Then there were parties- so many you forgot what sobriety was like- and then when sobriety finally came you discovered you were still the small unsure child as before and you absolutely _hated_ it. So you drank and drank and drank until that child could be shoved into a corner and forgotten.

That's why you can't have an actual relationship- well, that and the fact that your mother was even more vocal in her disappointment than your father ever was. It's been what? Seven years since she was killed and you still haven't forgiven her for leaving you nothing..."

"All right! All right. I'll call your bloody beloved Lestrade." Dimmock gave a tired sigh."

"Ah, you are learning."

"Shut up Holmes. Please, just shut up."

NX-SH-NX

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade groaned into his pillow as his phone beeped next to him at- a quick glance at the clock had him cursing- 2:16 am.

What an ungodly hour- and what were you supposed to say to people when they made their remarks about how you didn't look as though you'd gotten any sleep? Oh, I was woken at some time past two...

It didn't really have the same ring as a solid hour really.

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzz!_

With an irritated sigh he answered the call.

"Lestrade."

"You do know that Sherlock Holmes is over here, picking at my crime scene and insulting my team, _again_." The frustrated voice of Dimmock groaned at him. "Please let him back on your cases."

"Wha-? How can he _possibly_ know about these? I told Chris to make sure she shut him out... properly... oh bloody hell. They're in on it together!" Lestrade exclaimed, his wife making an angry noise beside him.

"Wait- who's Chris?"

"The hacker I brought in to help."

"Oh, the one who creamed him last week?" Dimmock asked, sounding vaguely impressed.

"Yes, that one!"

"Funny. They didn't seem to be that chummy."

"Oh, I doubt that they are. Though I wouldn't put it past it to do this just because they _can_. Or because they have the same strange code of honour or something."

"You mean like her helping him to hack my cases is her weird way of apologising?"

"I guess that could be it, yeah."

"Oh God. Two of them? It can't be."

"Yeah well, I mean, it could be that they're just doing it for kicks I mean..."

"... Remind me to make sure to keep her away from me then."

"She's a hacker- I can't really keep her further away from you."

"You definitely need to let Holmes get back to work."

"They were kicking and punching each other in the middle of New Scotland Yard for God's sakes!"

"He's going off his rocker without the work."

"Well _apparently_ he's hijacking your cases now, so that shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

"Look Lestrade, everyone knows Sherlock will only ever willingly work with you. And that reflects in the cases that are assigned to your team..."

There was the sound of someone yelling 'Dull!' in the background and Lestrade couldn't help a snort of morbid amusement.

Typical Sherlock.

"Alright, it's been a week. I suppose I can let him back on the cases."

"Thank God! Now I have to go break the good news... Wait, what? A jar of pickle juice? What _for_? Oh for... I need to go. Your detective seems determined to make this into something more than it is... Oi! _Put that down_!"

The phone went dead against Lestrade's ear, and he couldn't help yet another snort of amusement, which caused his wife to give him a slight shove.

"Greg, you're snoring again."

"Ah, sorry love. I'll be quiet."

"Hm. Okay."

Knowing full well that he wouldn't get a wink of sleep tonight, Lestrade carefully got out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around himself, heading to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He had to be in the office in a few hours anyway.

London was about as quiet as it ever got, this time of the day. And there was the faint promise of rain in the air, which had Lestrade mentally sighing. Evidence tended to get washed away by rain and it made Sherlock crabby- which made him completely intolerable.

And he'd have to keep the two children separated if he wanted any peace.

Donovan felt no need to stop anything that involved Sherlock getting beaten, so he'd have to move the bloody hacker into his office.

Lestrade ran his hands over his face as he let out a sigh. This was ridiculous, he was giving up his life, his time, his energy and now his office. And for what? The chance that one single murdered would be caught? The chance that Sherlock would somehow become a good man? The off chance that a difference would be made?

God, he was getting old.

And depressing.

It didn't matter whether he made a huge difference in the world, catching one killer at a time was the best he could do. He was a man of action, and he would do whatever he needed to to ensure that one person got justice.

That was it.

So, he would move Chris into his office first thing, and that was just that. Moriarty was too dangerous to just be left to his own devices. This needed to end- and soon.

A slight scraping noise caught his attention, and the man cocked his head as he listened to the night noises around him.

There it was again.

Like someone picking the lock.

Shit. Someone was picking his lock!

Admittedly, it was probably Sherlock, but it wouldn't do to take a chance.

With this thought still fresh in his mind Lestrade headed for the bedroom- and his gun- only to find himself facing a rather large barrel chest.

Shit.

NX-SH-NX

"Davies, I swear to God that this idiot is going to be the death of me." Chris growled from behind her drink.

"Oh?" Daniel raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Yes! I mean, he's insufferable!" She gestured wildly with her bottle.

"Hm."

"He goes around showing off to everybody- God, he could have been a fucking Shakespearean actor with all the drama he pumps into his reveals- and he insults everyone and everything. It's ridiculous! And it pisses me off!"

"So, just off him. It's how you usually work, isn't it?"

The look Chris shot him with was suddenly far too sharp for his tastes. "Did your fiancé leave you?"

"No."

"Then what the hell are you doing? You're usually the one who lectures me on the value of life and shit."

"Maybe I'm just tired."

"You could be dead on your feet and you'd still be lecturing me."

"And you know this for certain."

"Of course I do! You've been babying and lecturing me for six years now!"

"Well maybe I'm not in the mood to play daddy tonight." Daniel snapped at the woman.

It was a mistake, he knew it was, snapping at her like that. Snapping things about fathers like that.

She blanched before she sat up straight and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You are _not_ my father. Get that into your fucking head. I don't know where your delusions spring from, but I neither want nor need your ridiculous... shit in my life."

"Then get out of my apartment!"

"With pleasure!" She slammed the bottle onto the table and headed for the door, ripping it open before turning back to him. "Get over it. I sure as hell have."

And then the door was closed and he was left alone with his thoughts.

He fell back onto his couch- glad that his fiancé was out of town for business- and allowed his thoughts to drift.

In all honesty, the situation was just far too similar to the one six years ago to not give him sleepless nights.

In his job it never paid to have a conscience. You were supposed to just turn on people, hand them over, beat them senseless, torture them...

_Kill_ them.

How in the name of all that was holy was he supposed to just do that? To just forget the years between the two of them and let her run helter skelter into a situation that he wasn't certain she could handle.

No- that wasn't it.

He knew she would handle it, probably badly, but she would handle it. The problem was simply that if she handled it badly she would end up as another burned agent.

Shit.

Normally he wasn't someone who swore, but this was just more than he could handle really.

Because how could he _not_ warn her?

How could he just stand there and watch her burn?

The ringing of his phone snapped him out of his reverie and he glanced uneasily at the caller ID. He really wasn't in the mood for Mycroft.

But it was his fiancé's number. A smile lit his face as he answered.

"Well hello there gorgeous."

"Hey handsome."

"I thought you wouldn't be calling me until tomorrow? Something about being busy?"

"I know, I know. And I _am_ busy. But it just wasn't enough to keep me from missing you..."

Daniel closed his eyes as he listened to her talk, revelling in the feeling of happiness and contentment fluttering in his chest. He really did love his fiancé.

Which was when he realised that he would watch Chris burn, because he had too much to lose.

And that decision hurt.

NX-SH-NX

Sherlock was frantic.

John was pretty sure he'd never _seen_ the man like this, all fluttery hands and wide eyes and panting breaths.

"I don't care what _you_ think Anderson, you could hardly find your arse with a map and a mirror! Now shut up and let me think!"

"What's wrong?" A female voice suddenly asked from his elbow.

John started as he looked at the petite female who had snuck up on him.

_Sherlock's right- there's something strange about her._ He thought, answering with: "Lestrade's been kidnapped."

She blinked her green eyes at him before turning thoughtfully to watch Sherlock.

"Well, aren't you going to ask why?" John prompted.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Do you _know_ why?"

"Well, no."

"Then it would be useless to ask, now wouldn't it?" She shrugged at him.

"I suppose, yes." John replied, still not taking his eyes off of her.

He'd never actually met the woman, just heard snippets from Sherlock on her sheer stupidity and incompetence. He absolutely loathed the woman.

But looking at her now he thought that she was rather strange.

She was wearing a hoodie with a Storm Trooper on it, her bobbed hair tussled and her green eyes had bags under her eyes that told of too many sleepless nights.

"You must be Chris then." He said.

The woman snorted. "Let me guess, he's been telling you all about how stupid and incompetent I am. With a side serving of how I took to blows with him."

"Well, you know, we're all incompetent idiots to him."

"Goodie. I'm part of a club. So do I get a badge or a t-shirt?"

"He's actually very brilliant."

"I didn't say he wasn't."

"But you don't like him."

"He irritates me."

"I think that might be the nicest way of putting it that I've heard, really."

She gave him a surprised look at this. "I'm not a nice person."

"Neither is Sherlock, really. But if you're willing to give him a chance he might surprise you. He's very loyal really."

"What? Like some kind of huge, barking German Sheperd?"

John laughed. "Not quite like that I think. But his bark _is_ worse than his bite."

She gave him a wry smile. "I wouldn't really say that- he's got a mean right hook."

Another laugh tore itself from John's throat. "I suppose he does. But he'd never throw the first punch."

"Hm, not the physical ones, no."

"Ah, but he just can't help the verbal ones. It must be terrible to be so brilliant that no one can understand you."

"... I suppose."

"I think that's it."

"Doctor and psychologist? No wonder you hang around."

"Oh no! I'm honestly not a psychologist!"

"But you want to understand him. That's why you stay isn't it? You've got some silly thought that maybe you can change him for the better."

"I hardly think it's silly. I think most people just don't want to understand him. And how lonely must it be to be immediately disliked for being brilliant? Because Sherlock Holmes is truly brilliant."

The look she gave him at that made him feel a bit like he was a bug under a microscope. John struggled not to flinch.

"You think that friendship can make someone better? Are you going to start quoting that 'You Raise Me Up' song at me?"

Another laugh from John. "I wasn't planning on it really. But I think it's a very good song."

"I think it's ridiculous. You can't make someone better with your mere presence."

"I wouldn't say that. When I met Sherlock, he cured me of my limp. Just by pushing me to do things I thought I'd never be able to do."

"So you want to return the favour?"

"I want to let him know that the entire world isn't out to get him. I think that everyone needs someone like that, to accept them as they are."

"Hmph."

"He accepts me, you know. Even though I am stupid and slow."

"Do you sing his praises often then?"

"Sometimes, when he just rattles off these brilliant deductions. But I also let him know when he's said and done something Not Good."

"Not Good?" She raised an eyebrow at this.

"Yes, he needs someone to tell him. The man doesn't understand human emotions, so he acts like he doesn't care."

"And he listens?"

"Sometimes. On good days." He smiled at her. She merely turned a thoughtful look at the, and God help him he would have that image stuck in his head forever now, large German Shepard.

"Well, maybe you should tell him that this whole fluttery business is Not Good."

John turned to see Sherlock look like he was going to hit Anderson, and sighed. Then he waded through the sea of people working to find Lestrade and took Sherlock's wrist in his hand.

"Come on, we need to go get some air."

Sherlock looked about to tell him to sod off when John simply gave him a look before starting to drag him out.

"John, I need to be in there!" Sherlock snapped at him when they made it onto the roof of the building.

"Sherlock, hitting people and insulting them is just going to make things _worse_. Let's just calm down."

"Lestrade is missing!"

"Yes," John said calmly, "and he'll still be missing in five minutes. You're the one who told me caring doesn't help, remember? Focus on the clues, use that brilliant mind of yours to find him. Then go back to caring afterwards."

Sherlock turned away from him, looking out over the scenery, his jaw clenched so hard that John though he might break a tooth.

Slowly, with deep breaths, the jaw unclenched and he finally turned around to look at John with determination in those brilliant eyes.

He nodded and John smiled.

"Better?" He asked.

"Better." Sherlock nodded again and promptly swept off into the building again.

NX-SH-NX

**A/N: **I'm not really happy with this chapter, but Sherlock was being stubborn and I finally decided to just get it out there. Honestly I wanted more action but it turned out to be a lot more angsty and character driven than I thought I was capable of writing.

My stories seem to do that.

This chapter was originally a lot longer, but I finally decided to just cut it here because it was a real monster.

Also, I'm not really sure about whether everyone's in character... but hey. It works for my story.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed- and please do an author a favour and feeeeeed her. With reviews, of course. :D


	5. The Flat Caps Conundrum

**Chapter 4**

The ocean was smothered by fog- muting all colour and sound.

It seethed and undulated as the first eddy of the morning breeze washed landwards.

The dilapidated trawler lay in the fog three miles off the desolate coast, its old body creaking and groaning as every swell of a wave caused more of the pungent odour of old fish to be released.

Robert Lawrence stood in the wheel house, his six foot frame covered in lean muscle standing tall, his amber eyes taking in the fog covered panorama and feeling the thrill of a new day coursing through his veins. Even after all his time in this world, he never could get over the beauty of a sunrise, the possibilities of a new day stretching before him...

It was as powerful as any designer drug.

And infinitely more legal.

A grunt and heavy steps on the stairs alerted him to the awakening of one of his companions.

"Morning." The accented voice came from the heavily muscled monolith of a man with piercing blue eyes and cropped blonde hair standing by the little stove where the coffee had been brewing. He went by the name of Dan.

Robert knew very little about his companions, except that the one had hired him to dig into the lives of people who shouldn't by any rights exist and the other had been part of the package deal.

Something about betrayal. Robert was paid to keep his nose out of those types of things.

And so it was that Robert kept his mouth shut, until much lighter footsteps were heard on the stairs and a distinctly British voice greeted the two men already there.

The newcomer was skeletally thin, his unimposing five foot eight frame hunched over to make him seem even shorter. His green eyes were fever-bright behind his horn rimmed glasses and he sported a full head of brown hair still.

He went by the name of Sam.

The man who had Robert to go stick his nose where it didn't belong.

"Mister Lawrence... I assume since you're here that you have news?"

"Yes." Robert shrugged.

"Then do share." The monolith, Dan, intoned.

"What can I say? The girl still doesn't _exist_, according to government records."

"I thought we'd covered this already." Dan snarled at him. "Sam found her. How are you still unable to get anywhere near her?"

"Because," Robert snarled at the man, "she's being _watched_. And not by just anyone- by government agents. They're all over her."

"Then you're useless." Dan snarled back, making to close in on Robert.

Sam's hand shot out to grab Dan's arm. When the huge man looked back at the smaller one, he received a shake of the head.

Still, Dan rounded on Robert. "Well- what use _are_ you then?"

"I know that she's a hacker, working for the Yard in exchange for a deal."

"Nothing Sam hasn't already told us."

"I also know, that the D.I. who holds her leash has been kidnapped."

"You?" Dan asked.

"I would have gone for the Sergeant, personally. Much easier to cover up."

"Indeed. Do you know who did it?"

"I might have some idea.." Robert smirked at the two men.

Sam turned his green eyes on him, silent questions brimming within them.

"And the girl seems to be moving right into the danger zone. Bad choice in men, I'd say. Probably has some daddy issues."

A whirl of fog and limbs later and Robert Lawrence was a crumpled heap on the ground, Dan staring at him without remorse.

A distressed noise left Sam's throat at the sight and Dan hurried to his side, immediately enveloping him in his strong arms and stroking his hair.

"Hey, hey. Shhhhhhh. He's fine- I just knocked him out. No reason to be upset, no reason at all." 'Dan' soothed.

'But,' the man signed, 'she's in danger.'

"Now look here- she's gonna be fine. We're gonna make sure of that, okay?"

Sam made a low whine in his throat and buried his face in the junction between Dan's thick throat and his muscular shoulder.

"No- you listen to me George Christopher Taylor- we will not allow that bastard anywhere near your baby girl. I swear it."

Dan then hugged the smaller man closer to him and continued to make soothing sounds and rub calming circles on his back.

Outside, the dawn painted the sea in rich hues of pink, orange and green.

NX-SH-NX

Chris yawned.

It was a lengthy, drawn out yawn.

The kind of yawn that could only be yawned after six successive sleepless nights spent slaving over her laptop in the hopes of finding something, _anything_, to help find Lestrade.

It wasn't working.

She even had the techies looking for clues, and it hadn't helped.

So here she was, hacking into random satellites in the hopes that they'd give her something semi-useful and half-listening to Sherlock rattling something off to that hopelessly idealistic doctor friend- John- of his.

She rubbed a tired hand over her left eye only to pause.

Immediately, she put both her hands on the keyboard and rewound the satellite footage.

There!

A man, in black clothing pulling a ski mask over his face.

He was in an alleyway a block from Lestrade's house, climbing out of a van that said it belonged to a cleaning company, but his build matched the masked man they had entering the house.

Chris brought up the still she had saved of the masked man, and put it onto the second screen she had poached (she was currently surrounded by seven in total, four of them showed the data her techies were coming up with, one was monitoring Sherlock's blog and another one was running her IMs under the guise of the windows command prompt, a very neat little program of Olliver's indeed).

The highest score on Chris's IQ tests had always been her spatial reasoning. As such she was more than able to recognise people she had seen only once before- despite the fact that she suffered from prosopagnosia, and as such could not recognise faces.

The simple fact was this: Christine Taylor was shitty at a lot of things, but her ability to recognise someone's build, mannerisms and voice were astounding.

It was one of the reasons she was such a brilliant agent- she knew what it was about the system that made a person an individual that was the most telling.

As such, she had not shared in the dismay of the rest of the team (and when had she become a part of this team?) that the man's face was covered.

Because it didn't matter to her.

Right now, Chris could see that the man in question had the same swagger. She could see that his shoulders were the same amount of pixels despite the distortions and the different angles. She could tell that he wore the same size shoe, and she could see that he wore the same clothing.

This was the same man.

Smirking, she blew up the picture of the man's face, cleaned it up and cropped it and set it through her (hacked- this persona didn't have that kind of security clearance) facial recognition databases from all over the world.

Then she pushed back her chair and gingerly unfolded herself from the uncomfortable thing, listening to her spine pop as she finally straightened it again.

"Oi, Sherlock." She called out as she headed for the coffee machine.

"What?" The man in question snapped at her.

"I found a frame with his face in it- and he was coming out of a truck that was supposedly from some cleaning company." She shrugged as she got herself some coffee.

There was a sudden hand on her shoulder and then she found herself being spun around to face the world at large (and Chris was very, very glad that she wasn't too tired to remember the threat of being burned or she would have broken Sherlock) and a pair of curiously coloured eyes were looking at her intently.

"_You_ found something?" Sherlock's incredulous voice spoke.

"Did I not just say that?" She snapped at him, shoving his hand away.

"Yes.. but.. _you_? That's akin to Anderson actually finding forensic evidence..."

"Hey!"

"Shut up Anderson, I don't have the energy for this." Dimmock snapped at the insulted man.

"Look, Sherlock, I am not an idiot. I just need _time_." Chris said, poking him in the chest with her mug and causing a little coffee to spill onto his purple silk shirt.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose at this and pointedly moved the mug away from himself.

_Huh_. Chris thought. _He is actually quite a bit taller than I am_.

She shook her head- because that was a thought brought on by overtiredness and being too close to a man.

Or, being too close to one she wasn't allowed to kill.

"Fine." He muttered sulkily. "Show me."

Chris rolled her eyes, downed her coffee and headed back to her desk.

"Okay- here we have Mister Mysterious outside Lestrade's house. He's wearing black- which seems to be the fashion statement of criminals the world over. And here he is in a dark alley about a block away from the house, putting on his ski mask and getting out of a van with a cleaning logo on it."

Chris looked at one of the screens that another techie back at HQ was reporting on- the one she's set to finding out about the cleaning company and the one next to it that was tracing the van itself.

"The company seems to be a shell corporation- though I'm not sure exactly for who or what. The van was apparently dumped into the Thames, if the satellite footage is to be believed."

"Hm." Sherlock said, staring intently at the man in the photo. "Not local- he's far too tanned for that. Spent some time in the military- is now a mercenary. From Rhodesia or South Africa. Size... thirteen feet, taking into account all variables. Was probably hired by whoever owns the shell company."

"You think it's Moriarty?" John asked from behind them.

"The possibility is there John." Sherlock sounded grim.

"Okay... let's just assume it could be anyone for now." Dimmock sounded a bit scared at the thought.

"How on earth did you notice it was the same person?" John asked Chris.

"Oh, you know... too much time staring at computer screens. Have you ever played F.E.A.R?"

The entire assembled group looked confused.

Good.

"Well, in it you need to make the decision of whether or not to shoot in a split second based solely on what you can see of the person from your hidey hole." Not technically true- but if it came down to it she could say she was talking about the multiplayer mode.

"... Oh. That's... good then." John said, in his usual polite manner.

"And they say computer games have no educational value..." She smirked at them all.

Just then the screen she was running facial recognition on beeped to let her know that it had found a match.

"Right, let's see what we've got here..." Chris muttered as she looked at the screen. "David Courtney, Zimbabwean citizen who was granted asylum in South Africa. Listed here as a fucking fisherman, he spends most of his time out of the country. The hit I got was from a drunk driving incident two years ago."

"So really, nothing I haven't already deduced." Sherlock sniffed at her.

Chris cracked her knuckles at him in response.

"Now, now children." John said placatingly. "Let's all play nice. I don't suppose you have anything on that dummy corporation yet?" He asked Chris.

"Nope. And if it is this Moriarty guy, then it's gonna take a lot of dig..." A loud beeping noise interrupted her and Chris swore.

"What?" Dimmock asked, suddenly hanging over her shoulder, which caused Chris's jaw to lock in an effort not to hit him.

"There's a new message on the blog..."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, suddenly hanging over the other shoulder.

Chris supposed she was lucky she only had two. Because she was pretty sure she'd be breaking a tooth if the pressure in her jaw was anything to go by.

"I don't know... says it's from a Carl Powers?"

"That's him." Sherlock ground out.

"I'll have to take your word for... son of a bitch!"

"What?" Dimmock asked.

"Fucker just planted a virus in your blog!"

"What?"

"Let me see if I can isolate it..."

"What does the message say?"

"I don't know! Something about heartburn?" Chris managed to grind out a reply, the code and information from all her screens scrolling rapidly in some ridiculous allusion to the Matrix.

"You mean: 'I'll burn the heart out of you'." John said with a grim look at Sherlock, who had gone pale and lock-jawed.

"Possibly... let's see... Ah! There!" God, she loved Olliver sometimes.

The code, when isolated, turned out to be a timed virus. The timer said it that there was six hours on the clock, though the isolation seemed to have triggered the virus's timer.

"Shit... I can't shut it down..."

"But why a virus?" John asked, confused.

"He knows about her." Sherlock answered.

Chris spared him a brief glance. "Should I be scared?"

"Hardly. He would get more of a reaction out of me if he were to kidnap Anderson or Donovan."

"Gee, thanks honey, I love you too."

Sherlock reared back as if struck. "Excuse me?"

"I'm being sarcastic, you stick insect." She spared him another quick glance before she smirked. "Though if that makes you uncomfortable- _dear_- I might just have to use it whenever you're annoying me."

Which was the time that she discovered the link.

It was completely accidental, as many great discoveries seem to be. Chris was messing around a piece of code that looked a bit iffy to her, when it suddenly gave way to a video link.

She clicked on it without really thinking about it.

A new window opened, showing nothing but a hand beneath a lamp on a steel table.

There was a sound of rustling, and then the face of a man appeared. A man that Chris recognised from the file- the face of Jim Moriarty.

"Shit!" She exclaimed.

"Moriarty." Sherlock growled.

"My, my, my. I must confess- I didn't think you would find my little surprise so soon!" The man on the screen sang. "Clever little girl!"

The hand on the screen twitched.

"Damn you Moriarty!" John cried out at the screen.

"Shut up! It's a one-way link!" Chris snapped at him.

"It is?" Dimmock asked warily.

"Of course- I'm not an idiot, despite what you people think."

"Now, Sherlock. I've been so lonely since you tried to kill me... but I'm willing to give you another chance. We'll play another game. I'm far too forgiving for my own good you know..."

"Talk about your bad romance..." Chris muttered.

"... So because you're new little friend is so clever, I'm going to give you a little clue. This one is all about the caps. And now... tick tock!"

That said, Moriarty turned to the hand and carefully put a wire around the pinky, pushing a stick between the wire and the pinky and twisting it around, so that the wire closed over the finger, drawing blood.

"That sick bastard...! He's using Vietnamese torture methods on Lestrade!" Sally shouted.

"Shit..." Chris sighed, rubbing tiredly at their eyes.

"It's all about the caps...? what does that mean Sherlock?" John turned to look at the other man.

"Obviously it's another case to solve, John. But which one?"

"I'll run a search on caps." Donovan said with grim determination.

"I'll try to trace the video, disarm the virus and look into the cleaning company." Chris said, already typing away at the keys.

It took half an hour, but finally Donovan gave a cry of success. She had managed to find a promising case.

Sherlock took one look at it before he nodded at John and the two swept out of the Yard like avenging angels- taking poor Dimmock and quite a few uniforms with them.

Chris honestly had no doubt that Sherlock would lose them within minutes, so she gave all the searches to the techies, except for the cleaning company.

That was an easy search to run in the background while she was gone.

She was halfway to the door when Donovan finally noticed.

"Oi- where are you going?" The woman snapped at her.

"Home- to my shower." Chris snapped back. " All the searches currently running are on automatic. I can't do anything more here. And I don't want to watch someone's fingers being removed."

"Fine. But be back before Freak is- and don't try to run."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sally. We're like family now."

NX-SH-NX

"My most sincere apologies to you on your loss." John Watson told the grieving widow.

"Yes, poor Ed. Such a charming fellow." Sherlock said, once more pulling the stunt involving crocodile tears on a poor widow. "Always used to have such a great time at the pub..."

"The pub? Ed_ward_ hates... hated the pub."

"Really? But at university we had such good times with the old boys... Dear Edward, always so full of life and jokes..."

"Edward's jokes are never funny... and he spends more time at the opera than in pubs!"

"Still, terrible business this. Such a black thing depression."

"Edward is not depressed! And this was not a suicide! It's the living in fear that gets to him... that and the letters!"

"Is it now?" And then the tears were gone. "Tell me then, where are these letters? And how many of them are in capital letters?"

"W-well... they're all in capital letters..." The widow looked at John.

"It's alright. We're working with the police on this."

"Very well then..."

The letters are handed over to Sherlock, while John comforts the grieving widow as he promises that they'll find the killer.

"It was that man you know." She confided in him over tea.

"What man?" John asked, curious.

"The one with the flat cap- I think you call it a cheese cutter. Used to be very fashionable back in the day. Anyway, I remember him because he used to stand outside the house day and night, rain and shine. Always just standing there- staring at us. One night he even followed us to the opera!"

"That sounds pretty creepy." John agreed.

"Yes! That's what I keep trying to tell the police!"

"And your husband didn't know who he was."

"I don't think so. Though he did say that he hadn't thought he'd follow him here."

"Really? Sounds a bit suspicious, doesn't it?"

"No. No- Edward was a well respected art dealer. He's never even gotten a parking ticket! The only conflict he finds himself in is with his partner- Mister Finch."

"What sort of conflict?"

"Oh, Mister Finch hates the impressionists. But Edward loves the impressionists- so they have some fights on what to display in the gallery. But Edward tends to back down most of the time. He just can't stand fighting."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Watson! I have it! It's in the caps!"

"Erm... I think I may have to go now, Mrs Carstairs..."

"Oh, have you found the... guilty person then?"

"I think Sherlock has, yes."

"Oh, well, then..."

"Yeah- I need to, erm, go..."

"Oh, yes, yes! Of course! I'm sorry I've been crying all over you!"

"JOHN!"

With a few more hasty words and a last assurance that the crying had been quite all right John hurried after Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Wait!"

"There is no time, John!"

"Yes, well, maybe you can just enlighten me on the way there... is this guy somehow related to a gang?"

"Don't be stupid John."

"It's not the wife, is it?"

"I doubt it- she still talks about her husband in the present tense."

"Right. Okay. Then who is it?"

"The old printer factory- HP if I remember correctly- eight miles from here."

"... How do you manage that?"

"Because, Edward Carstairs found out about the fact that his partner- Mister Abercombie Finch- was forging a great many master pieces in the old printer factory. The notes are printed on small pieces of canvas- canvas that has the same texture as a supposed Vermeer.

The printing itself was significant in that the capital letters were worn- pointing to an out of date printing system known as a letterpress which was revived in the 20th century to produce a relief printing surface typically from digitally rendered art and typography.

In other words, the same machine as they used to print a great many of their posters.

So, where can we find a letterpress and enough space for forgery? In the only abandoned factory in the vicinity- the old printer factory.

Simple."

"... Brilliant." John grinned at him.

Sherlock grinned back.

"Do we have him?" Dimmock asked as they reached the police cars.

"Yes."

"Good- just tell us where and we'll get him."

NX-SH-NX

Gregory Lestrade groaned.

There was a dull pounding sound... somewhere.

Or maybe it was just in his head?

But no- the pounding grew louder. Like someone was trying to find a way through his skull.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Crack!

Lestrade tried to keep his eyes open as he saw a shadowy figure approach him.

The figure knelt next to him, quickly shining a little torch into his eyes, and muttering something about concussions and dehydration.

"Right, time to get out of here sunshine." The man grunted.

NX-SH-NX

"Damn it!" Sherlock's fist connected with the wall.

"Sherlock..." John tried, reaching out a hand to the frustrated man.

"No! I won! He should be _back_ because I _won_!"

The paramedics who were busy carrying the stranger off on a stretcher gave them a disapproving look.

"Sherlock..."

But Sherlock was gone.

NX-SH-NX

In New Scotland Yard, the automatic search into the shell cleaning company beeped its results.

The results would have surprised anyone who cared to look.

Luckily no one did.

Because listed as the owner was one Christine Taylor.

NX-SH-NX

**A/N:** Mwahahahahahahaha! Bet you didn't see _that_ one coming.

Yeah- it's one am. I've been driving my granny around and helping my mom spring clean- and today I'm going to go help Gran spring clean so... I'm tired. Sorry.

DeadTeenWalking kind of kicked my lazy ass into gear again. Hope you enjoy honey. :D

Still- see that? That my friends is something approaching a plot. (I never said it would be a _good_ plot) Go me!

Erm... I think Chris's dad may be gay. Why, you ask, is this so? Well, it's simple. As I will explain later on in this story. But I swear it's not just there for shock value or to squick people. And it won't be worse than this. So you can probably just ignore it. :D


	6. Russian Dolls

**WARNING: **Here be gore (more than in the previous chapter) in the first part of this chapter. If this squicks, please skip to the second scene. :D

**Chapter 5**

Lestrade groaned.

His head was swimming and his stomach was churning in sympathy. His eyes felt glued together and it took him a few tries to finally prise them open.

There wasn't much to see, really.

He was surrounded by wood- old and creaky with the distinct smell of old fish emanating from every nook and cranny.

And- was the room swaying?

There was a soft lapping of water too, now that he took the time to listen. That made it pretty obvious that he was on a boat.

He hadn't _been_ on a boat though, when he'd come to previously, because there had been cement and cold walls and just _darkness_.

The sudden presence of light caused Lestrade to groan in agony and screw his eyes shut.

"Ah, awake are we? Took you fucking long enough."

Lestrade recognized that voice vaguely... had he known this man somewhere before?

There was the rasping of something being dragged across the wooden floor.

"So. You are Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

It wasn't a question, and Lestrade opened his eyes wearily to see a mammoth of a man straddling a spindly looking metal chair. The behemoth before him smiled a cruel smile and pulled a knife from a boot sheath, running a thumb over the blade.

"I need some information- and you can give it to me the easy way or the hard way. Your choice."

Lestrade frowned at the man. He swallowed, an action that was far harder than it would normally be due to the dryness of his throat.

"But then, you must be thirsty." The man held up a glass of water, putting a straw into it and holding it out to Lestrade who moved his head forward to try and capture the straw with his lips.

The man moved the glass.

"Not too much, or you'll get sick."

And then the water was there, gliding down his throat and Lestrade thought it was the best feeling he'd ever had before.

And then it was gone, the man putting the glass beside the chair.

"Good, wasn't it? See- if you just work with me this needn't be unpleasant in the least bit."

"And... what exactly would you... want to know?"

"Oh, nothing about Queen or Country, I promise. All I want to know about is a girl."

Lestrade frowned. "A girl?"

"Yes- your little pet hacker. Miss Christine Taylor."

"No." Lestrade glared at his captor. He wasn't the kind of man to give his people- even the ex-criminals- over to strangers who played with knives.

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you that I don't mean to harm her?"

"No."

The man sighed, rolling his eyes upwards before he tore off the bottom of his shirt. Then he gripped the sides of Lestrade's jaw and forced it open, finally stuffing the rolled up material into the D.I's mouth, and then patting his cheek in a patronizing gesture.

"My partner gets ever so upset if he hears screaming."

Another tearing sound and within a few quick movements Lestrade was blindfolded.

"You've heard, of course, of sensory deprivation? It makes even the smallest cut seem so much bigger... see?"

There was the feeling of a blade moving over his left shoulder blade, until the pressure increased and then the blade was slicing through his shirt and his flesh and Lestrade made a sound that was muffled by the gag.

"You know, I'm pretty good at this, I've kept people alive for _weeks_ using this method..."

Lestrade is pretty sure that he's let go a whimper now- he's hardly an idiot. He's not been trained to withstand torture, and even those who have been trained can only withstand it so long.

He can only try to resist, and hope that Sherlock's brilliance doesn't let him down this time.

Another slice of the knife- this time across his spine and Lestrade swallows a groan, wishing he could at least see what was happening.

Slice across his lower back, slice across his kidney, another slice across his left side, then the knife moves its twisted path to his right shoulder blade.

"Oh, I bet the wife will be disgusted by these, what do you think dear Detective?" The man's breath ghosts against his right ear, just before the knife cut into his right bicep.

Lestrade lets out another distressed noise- and even he couldn't say whether it was a scream or a whimper.

The knife's blade travels up from his bicep, creating a river of fire and blood across his arm, his collar bone, up his throat and stopping at his earlobe.

"I'd ask you to talk, but I've been going without blood for far too long..." The man pressed his nose into the juncture of Lestrade's neck and shoulders, taking a deep breath. "The smell... your red blood... it's so intoxicating... Yes, Detective, I think we're going to have a bit more fun..."

Lestrade shook in terror.

NX-SH-NX

Sherlock Holmes was furious.

He had _won_ damn it, and yet he was arriving back at the Yard without his Detective in tow. He was missing something- something crucial...

And wasn't that just the rub of it? He was missing something crucial (yet again) and he was going to lose someone he _didn't _ hate (because Moriarty had promised he would) and it was all ridiculous.

Wasn't he smarter than Moriarty?

"Hey." John looked at him across the space separating them in the back of the taxi (he took extra care to check the cabbie's description).

Sherlock turned his head away from John.

"Sherlock, come on. You solved the case so quickly... maybe he's keeping Lestrade until you let him know you've managed it. Like the bombers."

"No- this is different. I'm _missing something_." Sherlock growled. Watching the traffic go by, his strangely coloured irises flicking across the window.

"Well... maybe he's keeping him as some kind of 'Grand Prize', you know?"

"Don't be ridiculous John! There is no 'Grand Prize' and if there was one it most definitely would not be Lestrade!"

"Oh, and then what would it be?"

Damn it. He'd said too much. Now John would _know_. He would realize that if Moriarty wanted to get rid of Sherlock's 'heart' he would have to get rid of Lestrade and Mycroft- but if he wanted to destroy Sherlock's soul he would kill John.

Which was why Lestrade would never be the grand prize. The grand prize would always be John.

The cab stopped in front of the Yard and the two of them got out just in time to see that damnable woman scampering out of her hippy van, hair damp and holding a large paper bag.

Shelock glared at her, and when she saw his glare she shot him one of her own.

John on the other hand smiled and waved at her.

"Hello Chris- gone home for a shower?"

"Well, that and I was dead tired of cold pizza. I brought us some sandwiches, milk and a butt load of cookies. They're brain food you know." She smiled at John as she said this. "So, manage to find everyone's favourite D.I. then?"

"We have not- as you would know if you had stayed where you were supposed to be you would have _known _this!"

"Woah, Cupcake! All my searches are going to take some time- I can't do anything much until they're done. And if I hadn't gone for a shower I wouldn't be any use either. Here- have a cookie."

"I don't eat while I'm working- digestion slows me down."

"Huh. I _only_ eat while I'm working."

"That is not the point!" Sherlock huffed.

"Children- let's take this inside! I'm sure the rest of the team will be happy with the nourishment, thanks Chris." John smiled as he took the bag from her and started towards the Yard.

Chris smiled happily at Sherlock.

"Are you high?" He asked, suddenly realizing that she was never this happy.

"What? Me? No! I was always too much of a nerd to really do drugs..."

"Obviously." He huffed at her. "... You don't take sleep deprivation well."

She gave him a crooked smile. "Actually, I'm fine until I hit the six day mark. Then I get all goofy and grinning- like the Joker on crack. With bloodshot eyes."

"... The what?"

"Batman's arch nemesis- like your moriarty. Except toothier, laughs more."

"My arch nemesis is hardly Moriarty." Sherlock sniffed as they entered the elevator.

"Really? The guy who goes around trying to kill you _isn't _your arch enemy?"

"No."

"Who is it then?"

"The most dangerous man you will ever know, but not our problem right now."

"... Right."

The elevator dinged, and he moved to get out.

"Hey- we just had a whole conversation without hitting each other! Go us!"

Sherlock rounded on her, eyes blazing. "For God's sake- go get some sleep!"

She blinked her huge green eyes (the same colour as the mould that grew on rocks in Wimbledon, he noticed) at him. Then she smiled at him again.

"That's great- because I brought my sleeping bag!" She smiled and headed for her desk.

Sherlock sighed at the ridiculous woman. Then he headed for John, who was handing out sustenance to the team.

"Thank God you brought us real food!" Sally Donovan exclaimed.

"Wasn't me actually, it was Chris." John said, turning to look for the woman in question, only to chuckle a bit as he watched the woman in question set up camp under her desk.

Sherlock was horrified (and alright, _mystified_) at the fact that she seemed to be sleeping in a strange sort of goat.

But from the looks on the others' faces, it was something he had no use in knowing, some trivial thing that caused them amusement.

Sherlock huffed himself right into Lestrade's office, only to freeze and run back out. Damn it! He was too slow!

"The video feed!" He announced to the room at large, causing Chris to sit up so quickly that she hit her head on the underside of one of the desks she had pirated, and the rest of the team to gape at him with food in their mouths.

Then that _woman_ was up and at her desk, calling up windows and generally looking busy.

A curse, and then she turned to him. "The hand- it's still there, and it's missing its entire pinky."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, starting to pace.

"Well, Freak, guess it means you got it wrong."

"Don't be ridiculous! It was an obvious case!" He snapped at her.

"Sherlock's right- the victim we recovered was missing it's top part of the pinkie." Dimmock said around his sandwich.

"Well... if it was so obvious, why'd he give us six hours?" The woman mused, frowning as she looked at another screen.

"Well, we did use a big chunk of that time to get to Wimbledon..." John interjected.

"But we still have three left." The Woman mused.

"He gave me more time than enough time last time." Sherlock sniped, stalking across the room to The Woman's side.

"Yes... but wouldn't he learn from that?" Dimmock mused, joining Sherlock at Her side.

"I never let him know I solved the case this far from the deadline."

"Yeah, but maybe he was watching you." The Blasted Woman said.

"Watching me?" Sherlock snorted, but the rest of the team seemed to consider this.

"No, no- seriously. Do you people know how easy it is to hack into security cameras? You can do it via Google- just watch."

She tapped a few words into the search engine box and pretty soon they were all staring at the front of the New Scotland Yard building.

"See?" She asked, sounding vindicated.

"That's creepy." Dimmock sounded dazed.

"I know right?" She scrunched up her nose.

"So wait- you can do that using Google?" Sally asked.

"You're missing the _point_ here!" The Woman exclaimed.

"That might explain how he knew where I was so easily..." John murmured.

He'd been playing Sherlock this whole time- tracking him, making him think he was one step ahead of him when really he had never been.

And how had he not heard about being able to hack cameras through Google?

"SHERLOCK!" The woman was snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Welcome back, pumpkin."

Sherlock shot her a glare, hating the fact that she was... calling him strange endearments. Making him feel uncomfortable in a completely new way, one he wasn't sure _how_ exactly to respond to.

"So we were asking what to do now?" Dimmock asked him, following the rest of the idiots in plastering a hopeful look onto his face.

A loud beeping interrupted their sheep-like staring and That Woman turned to her screens once more.

"It's the blog... There's a message..."

"Let me see." Sherlock demanded.

"God, you're a demanding bastard aren't you?" She snarked at him.

But Sherlock was far too busy scanning the message to answer her, even though his mind catalogued the fact that they were both avoiding any casually direct contact with each other.

_The man with the cap, will allow the victim to still clap. Tick tock, Sherlock!_

"Wow. That's a shitty rhyme right there." The Woman snorted.

"What? Where? How bad?" Sally asked. The Woman read the message out loud, allowing silence to once more reign in the room.

"We need to find that man."

"Right, on it." The Woman said, pausing. "Wait- what does he look like?"

"A man of six foot two, wearing a size seven shoe- American export made with crocodile skin, about 175 pounds."

"The wife also said that he wore a flat cap- and he had a scar across his left eye..." John added. Shrugging as Sherlock looked at him. "She cried on my shoulder, so it only hit her about fifteen minutes after you'd gone to have a look at the body."

"Shit. This is like some sort of twisted Russian doll..." Dimmock added.

"A Russian doll... Of course!" Sherlock shouted triumphantly. "This case has layers! Lestrade is the final layer in this game!"

"What, like some sort of fucked up Snakes and Ladders?" The Woman asked around a mouth full of sandwich. Sherlock shot her a disgusted look, but she seemed perfectly oblivious.

"A what?" He snapped at her, finally giving up on staring the answer out of her.

She gave him a look. "Yeah, I don't know how to translate that into Sherlock-Speak. Sorry."

"Shouldn't we be looking for Lestrade?" Sally interjected.

"Jesus people- I need to eat at least! Give me those cookies..." More munching followed and Sherlock decided that this was just ridiculous. He would do it on foot, the good old fashioned way.

"John- get your gun. We need to see some people about a man!" He announced as he headed for the door.

"Uhm, Sherlock..." Sally Donovan's voice interrupted his grand exit.

Sherlock turned to see that John had fallen asleep in her chair.

"... I'll go." The Woman said. "We can use my van- pretty inconspicuous and I can monitor all my searches and stuff in there. So you can do the leg work and I can hack more cameras."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's either that or an entire squad of officers, Sherlock." Dimmock warned.

"Fine!" Sherlock growled. "Pity you're no good with a gun."

_She_ grinned at him. "You never know- I might surprise you!"

"The only thing that surprises me is the fact that you are more useless than the rest of the Yard put together."

"Aw, Cuddlebunny, you say the sweetest things!"

NX-SH-NX

Jeoff Menkin was trembling.

He wasn't quite sure _how _ he was supposed to tell his boss that a man- _one single man_- had managed to overpower the four of them who had been set to guard the fuzz. But he was pretty sure his boss wouldn't be pleased.

"Yes." The voice is tinny over the speaker of the cell phone he had been given for use in these sorts of situations.

"Uh, hello Boss." He was nervous, and he could hear it in his own voice. That wass never a good sign.

"What have you done wrong _now_?"

"Well, Boss, you see... there was this... bunch of men, and they bust in here and they overpowered us and... they took the fuzz."

Silence.

"How disappointing."

"Yes, sir. Yes it is."

"I mean for you, idiot. Fire."

"Fi-?" Jeoff never got to finish the sentence before the bullets ripped him and his three companions to shreds.

NX-SH-NX

When John snorted himself awake mere moments after Chris's van had pulled out into the London traffic, it was to the sight of a busy bustling team of people and two people standing at a computer screen.

He figured it was alright, if Sherlock and Chris were still there instead of doing something stupid.

NX-SH-NX

George Taylor stood across from the window he knew belonged to his daughter- his little princess.

He'd seen photos, of course, of her now. She'd grown into a lovely woman.

He could also read Olliver Macken's fingerprints all over her file, so he knew that Holmes had gotten his claws into her.

It was, of course, his fault for dragging her into this.

And it was his duty to get her out of this.

He would do anything in his might to do that.

Hell, he'd do anything out of his might to get her away from Holmes and his diabolical schemes.

He would make this right.

No matter what it took.

NX-SH-NX

Oliver sighed as he downed yet another Red Bull.

This was ridiculous- he was chasing a ghost!

Admittedly, Chris's code wasn't the best of the best, but it was pretty good (after he'd helped her... a lot) and yet this guy was just pinging him all over the fucking world.

Wait... pinging him everywhere but Wicking.

Well, if that wasn't a huge blinking arrow then Oliver didn't know what was.

Furiously he started typing.

NX-SH-NX

Jim Moriarty smiled at the man tied to the table.

"Oh how lovely- we get to play again! You should start hoping that my dear Sherlock starts making headway with his case. I'd hate to see you lose all your fingers... that would be a tragedy, now wouldn't it?"

The man let out a muffled scream as the wire was twisted around the stick once more, causing a sickening crunch to echo through the empty cavern they were hidden away in.

Moriarty laughed. "Oh, how I love that sound! Let's carry on, shall we?"

NX-SH-NX

**A/N:** Short chapter, I know. But there's a lot happening. And I promise to update soon (ish). Because otherwise DeadTeenWalking will end up stalking me again. Something about her update schedule being much better than mine. Psh.

**Thank you**: for your interest in this story (I can see there is some interest! Yay!)

Love it? Hate it? Think Sherlock has gone OOC in his interactions with Chris? Let me know in a **review**!


	7. The Widow and The Witch

**Chapter 6**

"Damn it Woman- watch where you're going!" Sherlock snapped at the brunette next to him as she squeezed her van into yet another impossibly small space in the London traffic.

"Look, moonpie, you get to criticise a lot of things about me. You get to call me stupid, idiot, useless- fuck, you even get away with _woman_- but you do not get to criticise my driving."

"So I should simply sit back and leave my precious mind in your, obviously incompetent, hands?"

"Psh. You've seen my van, an expert like you should be able to tell it hasn't been totalled."

"This particular van has never seen more than a scrape with a lamp post, however, it is a new acquisition. You've only had it six months now. And you do not _scrape_ or _bang _or otherwise merely inflict minor damage on a vehicle- you tend to write it off."

"How could you _possibly_ know that?"

"Your right middle finger. Obvious."

"Of course." Chris rolled her eyes and threw the van over two lanes, narrowly making the turn off.

"Obviously you bought your license."

"Nope." Chris grinned at him. "Got it completely legally. Back when I wanted to be an actuary."

"An actuary." Sherlock deadpanned, taking his eyes from the road for the first time since the van had started.

"Yup. I even studied for it- a year and a half at Cambridge."

"Hm."

"Hm?"

"Yes, you infernal woman 'hm'."

"You're probably wondering why I quit."

"One would assume you, like many other young people, found that it was not what your overly imaginative minds romanticised it to be."

"And how often do _you_ assume things?"

"Not often." He smirked at her.

"Thank God, I'd have to have kicked you out of my van then."

"No. Something happened to you... Something that brought out a part of you that was previously... hidden... stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop it. Now."

"What the-? We're on a fucking freeway! What's gotten into you?"

"Mycroft."

"Ah."

"Then you _are_ one of his agents."

"... Okay, to my credit, I did fool you for a while there."

"Stop the van."

"No."

"Am I being kidnapped as well then?"

"Look, Sherlock, you _know_ Mycroft."

Sherlock sniffed at her.

"So- let's think this through logically." Chris said placatingly.

"I'm surprised you know such a complicated word, considering you're one of his minions."

"Logic, Sherlock, logic."

"Are you saying I am not being logical?"

"Look at it- _really look at_ this situation: I can stop the car now, acquiesce to your demands and promptly disappear from your life..."

"Sounds perfect."

"... but how long before Mycroft sends another of his minions?"

"... And?"

"And, the next one he sends won't be halfway as exciting as I am."

"You are hardly exciting."

The next moment Sherlock found himself staring at the barrel of a gun.

"No- my cover isn't exciting. I promise plenty of entertainment. Plus- the golden carrot."

"The golden carrot?"

"You get to play Mycroft. You get to use his people, his resources... I have four techies at my disposal. Plus, you know, me."

"You?"

"I'm bad at a lot of things, schnookums, but I'm excellent at combat situations. I personally promise to cut Moriarty's balls off before giving him over to you."

Sherlock snorted. "Watch where you're going."

"Yes dear."

"Very well."

"You accept?"

"There are few things I enjoy as much as annoying Mycroft."

"Hey, that's something we have in common! People should listen to me more often..."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I just helped you turn this whole thing on your brother. I'm an evil schemer."

"You _are_ Mycroft's little minion."

"And I'm a very good little minion. Kinda. Most of the time. You know. But this is good, that way I don't have to kill you to keep my record unblemished."

"Undoubtedly you are even less competent with that than you are at hacking."

"Excuse me- I managed to pull the wool over your eyes, _darling_. Killing you would be a snap."

"Undoubtedly still an after effect of the concussion I had."

"Okay, Pookie-pie, whatever helps you sleep at night."

NX-SH-NX

**WARNING: DISTURBING CONTENT ALERT! SKIP IF EASILY SQUICKED!**

Lestrade gasped as cold water hit his face.

Spluttering, he tried to open his eyes only to have his vision remain black.

_Oh God,_ he panicked, _has he blinded me?_

The rough feel of cloth against his eyes let him know that it was probably only a blindfold.

"So, Detective, what shall we do today? I honestly have no preference as long as I watch your blood ooze out of you..."

An unrelenting pressure on the deep gash in his left shoulder blade had Lestrade screaming in agony. The sound disappeared into the cloth stuffed into his mouth.

The man laughed.

"Ah, how I've missed that sound. In prison, you have to rush things. Now though..." The tip of a knife stroked Lestrade's throat, and he could feel blood rushing into the shallow cuts, the man's head dropped to inhale the smell in the same way drug addicts inhaled cocaine.

Lestrade let out a whimper as the man licked his way along one particularly long incision, as he groaned in pleasure.

"Hm. Yes, let's take our time..."

The man caressed Lestrade's throat with his free hand, spreading the blood everywhere and following it with his tongue as he lapped it all up.

"I think I might just eat you up, you're so sweet."

Lestrade fought furiously against the restraints on his arms and legs, trying to get away from the monster that was trying to consume him, making the man laugh.

"Oh, how sweet. You're trying to struggle. I like that in a victim."

Lestrade let out a muffled denial that turned into a scream as the knife was plunged viciously into the space underneath his right collarbone.

"It's sweet how much in denial you are." The knife twisted. "But there's no one to save you now."

_Yes there is! There is- come on Sherlock!_ Lestrade screamed in his head.

"Dan... Dan, are you down there?" Another man's voice came from somewhere above them, and his torturer hissed.

"Yes Dear. Be up in a second! Well, detective, I guess it's night-night time for you."

And then it all went mercifully dark.

**OK. DISTURBING CONTENT DONE. YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES NOW. **

NX-SH-NX

John woke to a sandwich being pressed into his hand by a nondescript officer, who had obviously been ordered to make sure that he ate.

With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes with his free hand, before carefully unwrapping the sandwich. Tuna mayonnaise wasn't generally his favourite filling, but after the junk food and skipped meals it was heavenly.

He noticed that the squad seemed a bit disassembled, with some dozing at their desks and a general feeling of lethargy hanging over those still awake.

Idly wondering where Sherlock was John crumpled the wrapping up in his hand and went off in search of Sally. Or Dimmock. Just someone who could catch him up.

He found Sally half-heartedly reading over something on her screen.

"Hullo Sally."

"Awake then are we, Doctor?" She asked with barely a glance up at him.

"Uh, yeah. Where's Sherlock?" He looked around half-expectantly.

"Oh, right, you were asleep... he and Chris have gone to check out a couple of things in that Flat Caps Case. Is that going to be its name, when you write it up by the way?"

"Uh, dunno yet... was it only the two of them?"

"Yes, Freak refused to let a squad go and everyone's too tired to really deal with him right now."

"Right. It's just..."

"Relax, Doctor. How much trouble can they get into?"

"That's... not making me... Uhm... Ouch..."

"Hey- are you okay?" Sally asked in alarm as John sank to the floor, gripping his midsection in obvious pain.

"Uh, no, get the... paramedics... probably... salmonella in... tuna..." He gasped out.

"Oh God, uhm, okay just... don't move...!" She said as she dialled the number for emergency services. After a quick conversation with the operator she went to John and started rubbing circles on his back. John looked at her quizzically.

"Anderson did it for me when I got food poisoning. Sometimes helps not to feel too alone, yeah?"

John merely nodded and went back to fighting the dizziness and nausea.

Soon- but not soon enough for John- the paramedics were there and hoisting him onto a stretcher. Sally tried to follow but a paramedic stopped her.

"Are you family, miss?"

"Of course." Sally said, lying through her teeth. John smiled a little.

"Well..." The paramedic said, looking around the room. "In that case..."

And then he had pistol whipped her, causing her body to crumple onto the floor. John gasped in pain and shock and tried getting out of the stretcher but one of the paramedics carrying him gave him a clip to the jaw, causing him to see stars.

"Careful- Boss wants him in mint condition!" The paramedic that had just downed Donovan said in a harsh whisper.

Then there was the bite of a needle in his arm and the darkness closed in over him.

Not before he'd managed to let his phone drop, though.

NX-SH-NX

The fog seemed to be closing in on Wimbledon, rolling in and covering the street signs more effectively than a black out.

Chris cursed.

"It's the third one on the left." Sherlock gestured wildly at a street they were almost already past.

Cursing once more, Chris turned the van into the oncoming traffic and narrowly made it into the street.

"Damn it Woman! Stop _doing_ that!"

"I wouldn't have to do it if you gave me directions _before_ we'd fucking passed the street!"

"You should be more alert- we're here!"

With another hair raising turn which threatened to tip the van over, Chris managed to pull into the drive way. She let out a low whistle as she looked at the huge, cast iron gates that blocked their entry.

"Woah- these people are loaded!"

"Hmph. Best climb over the gate then." Sherlock said as he got out.

"Take this job, he said, it'll be _challenging_, he said. And what happens? I'm still fucking breaking and entering." Chris mumbled as she got her sheepskin rug out of the back of the van.

Sherlock had meanwhile stopped to observe the electric fencing, almost failing to catch the blanket she'd thrown his way.

Chris merely climbed the wall like a monkey before holding her hand out for the rug, though Sherlock seemed in no hurry to give it to her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Chris hissed in annoyance.

"Observing." Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh, well, take your time then. Don't mind me!"

"Very well."

"_Sherlock_!"

"What, Woman?"

"Just give me the bloody blanket!"

Sherlock threw the blanket in her general direction, causing it to flutter uselessly to the floor a few feet from her. With another curse Chris climbed back down, picking up the rug and throwing the man a glare.

"Well? I thought you wanted to get _in_. Disturb the grieving widow. The usual shebang."

"Shut up."

"You are such a demanding bastard- do you know that? If your brother wouldn't burn me, I would have already found some novel way of killing you."

"This conversation is killing my brain cells."

"Thank God! I was starting to get seriously behind on my kiling quota for this year..."

"Are you always like this?"

"Like what?"

"This..." He gestured with his hand. "Annoying. Impossible to _shut up_."

"Pretty much. I get worse when I'm bored though."

"You're bored? You are standing in the middle of a great game, played between the two most brilliant minds of the century and you're _bored_?"

"Uhm, I'm standing in front of some huge mansion in Wimbledon, watching a man looking and pecking at the ground like some sort of headless chicken. Yes, I'm bored. I want to beat someone up..."

Sherlock shot her another glare. "Apparently I should go for the other agent."

"Nah- trust me. My replacement is the very epitome of home grown, corn fed wholesomeness. You'd hate him."

"John is 'home grown, corn fed wholesomeness'. And I... tolerate him."

"_John_ is an adrenaline junkie, who lives for the next thrill. Something we share."

"Perhaps, but John never minds my observations."

"Maybe if you said something..."

"Fine. The soil has been disturbed recently- a mere half an hour ago. The man was 5'6", wore a size eight shoe, smoked a cheap brand only made in America. He was most probably here intent on the robbery that Edmund Carstairs must have foiled- hence leading to his death."

"... Wow. I am _good_."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you're... you know... not half bad at this stuff. But I managed to fool you for a while, so I'm good. See my logic again here?"

"And people say I have an ego."

"You do. But mine's bigger."

"Again: shut. up."

"Wait- did you just say robbing the place?"

"Yes. Which is why I shall once again be D.I. Lestrade, and you shall be Sally Donovan." He took out the necessary identifications and strode over to the gate, buzzing the intercom.

"Hello?" Came a tinny voice over the speaker.

"Yes, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan, we're here about the robbery."

"Oh- well, come in then."

Sherlock frowned at the voice, muttering under his breath.

"What's up, Gum Drop?"

"That is not Mrs Carstairs' voice."

"Alright, so it's an unknown situation." She shot him a wicked grin. "Might just end up being interesting."

"Are you always this bloodthirsty?"

"Well, not this obviously. But I'm having withdrawal. This is the most peaceful..."

The gates swung open and Chris startled. The house was like something from a regency novel- the kind her stepmother had made her read- with its sprawling design and gorgeous garden. Everything in the garden was immaculate- the hedges were trimmed, the trees were in those round shapes you saw only in the gardens of the filthy rich...

But the thing that bothered her, and it really bothered her with her OCD tendencies, was that the fountain was not in the middle of the huge gravel drive.

Frowning as she hurried after Sherlock, she bit her lip in a vain effort to distract herself from its obnoxious not-quite-middles, off-by-an-inch position. Who the hell did that? Spoiled a perfect garden like that? Oh, she knew that her apartments were a _mess, _but nothing on her walls were ever hung in anything but perfect straightness. Even the piles of books were all neatly stacked- she even stacked her fridge in perfect little square patterns.

So, yes, she was weird.

And yes- it was stupid.

But that didn't change the fact that it bothered her.

"Detective Inspector, Sergeant." A male voice broke her from her heated glare at the fountain. "May I take your coats?"

The man who had spoken was dressed in a suit just as perfect as the gardens- though without the horrible fountain-skewness. He had black hair that was also perfectly coiffed and stood straight as a rod, with his dark brown eyes regarding them dispassionately.

Everything about him screamed butler.

"Yes, thank you. I shall need to speak to Mrs Carstairs about the robbery." Sherlock demanded imperiously.

_Trust the bloody Holmeses to have butlers in this day and age. _Chris thought as she handed over her own coat. She honestly shouldn't be surprised, though, considering how Mycroft could be a bit of a brat himself, and his P.A. Had to do everything for him.

"Very well sir, she will be right down." The butler said as he led them to a sitting room roughly the size of her apartment. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"Coffee, if you don't mind, as strong as you can make it. Been a tough time at the yard lately." Chris interjected, smiling her most charming smile at the man.

"Very well then." The butler remained impassive.

Chris made a face as he left. "God- that has to be the worst job in the world!"

"Hm, you would be incapable of it. Ruled as you are by emotions." Sherlock snarked at her.

"I was thinking more along the lines of my bloodthirsty nature, but whatever works for you Giggles."

"Stop that!"

"Oh, I see. You'd prefer Cuddlebunny, would you?"

"Oh my!" They heard a woman gasp. "I thought... it's just... that John fellow... well, you just seemed to be... erm, together!"

"Now, Mrs Carstairs..."

"Oh my God! You're cheating on me?" Chris gasped. Sherlock shot her a deathly glare.

"Oh, no, I mean... I'm sorry!"

"Don't be." Chris smiled. "I was just joshing around. I'm Sergeant Donovan." She stuck out a hand and gave Mrs Carstairs a conspiratorial grin. "We need to keep our bosses on their feet, don't we?"

"Oh- I don't work anymore. Not since Edmund and I were married. We were quite intent on starting a family, you see?"

"Of course. An absent mother is hard on children."

"Oh, you have some children then?"

"Not yet. But my own Mother was absent much of the time."

"Well, you seem to not have suffered too much..."

Chris gave a delighted laugh. "Oh, thank you! Still, how long had you been trying?"

"Since we were married- six months ago. Oh, it was tragic, though, how we met. And yet ever so romantic..."

"Please do share. In as much detail as you possibly can." Sherlock jumped in.

"Oh, yes, well. It was on a cruise ship- I was an au pair back then, you see, and I was looking after the children of the family I was employed by back then. We were going to the Mozambique, because the father was quite the fisherman and one of his friend highly recommended it. And it was so cheap as well!

Anyway, I'm getting carried away...

We left America on a cruise ship, and everyone was so excited to be going on a family holiday..."

"Mrs Carstairs, you say you were leaving from America?"

"Oh yes- that's where I was au pairing, you see, I was trained in Britain but the family came to hear of my excellent reputation and insisted that I was to be their next au pair.

So it was that I travelled to America.

And so it was that we left America on that lovely summer afternoon.

In any case, I had just put the children to bed and was on my way to my cabin, holding my book of Byron poetry when I bumped into a man. The book fell out of my hands, as the man steadied me with his hands. And then we both reached for it together- our hands touched, our eyes met and I knew that it was love at first sight.

Edmund felt the same way, and I left the family after my two weeks notice. We were married in a little church in the Drakensberg in South Africa. It was picture perfect and now...

And now my Edmund is dead!" The woman broke into sobs and Chris made a face before going to sit next to the woman and throwing a comforting hand around her shoulders.

This seemed to be a fatal mistake however, since the other woman promptly clung to her like a limpet and sobbed into her jumper.

Sherlock smirked at her, and she stuck out her tongue.

"Oh, well, look who's still playing the part of the grieving widow." Another woman- this one dressed in austere black jodhpurs and boots, with a helmet under her arm and a riding crop in her other hand, with her black hair pulled back into a severe bun- sneered.

"Oh, Elizabeth!" Mrs Carstairs said, standing up and wiping at her eyes with her tissue. "This is.."

"Do I look like I care? Why can't you just go crawl back into whatever hole my brother found you in and leave us in peace?"

Sherlock and Chris shared a look.

"This is Elizabeth Carstairs- Edmund's sister." Mrs Carstairs introduced the woman tremulously.

"Police, again? Have they found out about your seduction of my brother? Have they realized that the robbery was perpetrated by you because I am about to cut you off? Are you here to haul her away- finally?"Elizabeth demanded of Sherlock.

"We have no proof of any wrong doing. And speaking of the robbery- what was taken? And from where?" Sherlock asked.

"Five hundred pounds, cash, and a family heirloom." The widow answered.

"A worthless family heirloom, except for sentimental value, that belonged to our late mother. Who took her life due to this slut."

"Oh, I... I have to.. go!" The widow said.

"Wait- Mrs Carstairs- we haven't finished questioning you yet!" Chris called out.

"Please, call me Catherine. And here is my number, should you need anything. Now please excuse me- I feel a bit ill." And with that Catherine made her escape.

Sherlock and Chris shared another look.

"Alright then, Miss Carstairs..."

"How do you know I'm not married?"

"A simple trick that all policemen can do, I assure you. I wonder if you know why Edmund Carstairs was on a boat from America to Mozambique?"

Elizabeth snorted. "Of course I do- Edmund was always a bit of a wimp- even when we were children. I would fall out of a tree, and I wouldn't make a sound. Edmund fell out of a tree and he'd scream bloody murder and end up in hospital for shock."

Chris disguised a snicker as a cough at that.

"Yes, yes, very amusing. Aren't you paid to be professional about this? In any case. Edmund is a highly respected art dealer, as you probably know. Well, about a year ago a rich American came to my brother about some very expensive and rare paintings- don't ask me which ones, or what, I don't share my brother's passion or knowledge- wanting to ostensibly put them into a new gallery that he was opening. My brother was all a flitter about this. The point being: he helped the American, and closed the single biggest deal of his lifetime.

However, all did not go according to plan. The armoured truck that they used to transport the paintings was mistaken for one carrying fresh, unmarked bills from the mint. Now, there is a gang in America that has become so powerful that they reportedly have a branch in every major city in America. They call themselves the 'Flat Cap Gang' since their signature at their crime scenes is always a flat cap.

The gang is run by the O'Donahugue twins. I don't know much about them either. Couldn't care less really.

In any case- it was this gang who robbed the armoured truck in which Edmund's beloved paintings were. But they apparently don't know the worth of paintings and so they burned the entire truck.

As you can imagine, Edmund was very upset about this, and so he set off for America. To right the wrong. He stayed there for three months, sightseeing and enjoying the American client's hospitality. The client hardly seemed upset and told my brother to keep the deposit he had paid.

In the course of his stay there they managed to catch the Flat Cap Gang- all except one twin. He was grazed by a bullet but managed to escape into the sewer system. The very day that my brother boarded the boat for Mozambique the headlines proclaimed both the police officer in charge of the bust and the American client to be dead. With a flat cap left at both crime scenes.

Well, that just scared Edmund out of his mind. And so it was that _Catherine_ found him in this vulnerable state of mind and promptly spun her web of seduction around my poor brother."

Elizabeth ended her narrative with a scowl.

"And the man in the flat cap that stalked the Carstairs?" Sherlock asked.

"I never saw him. Catherine probably made him up."

"I see."

"Wait- why Mozambique?" Chris piped up.

"My brother needed some time to regain his equilibrium after the whole nasty affair. He loved fishing- and it came highly recommended from his American client."

"Alright... but why not just fly?" She asked again.

"Simple: on the flight to America Edmund realized that he was claustrophobic. Cramped space is hardly a problem in our estate." Elizabeth gestured at the room around them. "He felt a ship would be less cramped. Pity. If he'd flown he'd never have met the slut."

"Perhaps. None the less- I will need to see the scene of the crime." Sherlock said as he got up.

"Of course. Jonathan will take you."

The butler reappeared, and Chris and Sherlock followed his straight back into the hallway.

NX-SH-NX

**A/N:** Long chapter... All that dialogue. Ow. My poor fingers. Hopefully it wasn't too long and boring. Sometimes I hate plot. _

**Special thanks** to DeadTeenWalking- for all her hard work in getting me to update, betaing, letting me bounce ideas off of her and keeping my Muse alive despite Episode 02.01. Give her some love people!

About **Irene Adler and the Second Season**: Okay, we all knew it was going to be AU. Irene will be in this story (I love her, I honestly do) but she won't be quite as kick ass (since I started this long before she came onto the scene and I'm too lazy to write around the new season) and Chris will, well, be Chris. Hopefully the whole Sherlock/OC thing won't just die.

About the **van scene**: Sherlock refused to be fooled any longer, and now he's preening in my mind. Nobody fools Sherlock for long, it seems. But Chris is pretty good at bullshitting- so I think they're evenly matched. ;P Honestly, I loved writing the van scene.

About the **Lestrade** torture scene... I don't know. I honestly don't know. Sometimes I scare myself. The point is... I'm going to be **beating our beloved characters with this stick named 'Bad Things'** from here on out. Then comes the 'Tragic Past' thing. So yeah. I even gave Sally some love- what does that say about her future?

As to **John**... Well apparently you all saw that coming. I have such clever (and paranoid) readers! Go you- give yourselves a pat on the back.

**Thank you**: for your interest in this story (I can see there is some interest! Yay!)

Too boring? Too gruesome? Do you just plain hate it for no distinguishable reason? Or do you love it? Let me know in a **review**!


	8. Insurance

**Chapter 7**

John Watson blinked in the halogen light that seemed to be positioned about an inch from his left eye.

Where was he? He still had the tell tale feeling of being ill. And he knew they had driven for quite a while- although his sense of time seemed a bit wonky at the moment.

The sound of a door opening got his attention.

"Ah, Doctor John Hamish Three Continents Watson, I presume?" A female voice said.

"Uh, yes?"

"Excellent."

"Excuse me, but who exactly are you?"

The light seemed to dim, revealing a dark haired woman in her late forties wearing an elegant purple cocktail dress.

"Me? I'm just someone who needs... insurance."

"Insurance? And that has what to do with me?"

"Silly boy- you _are_ my insurance."

"Me?"

"Of course. The more the great Sherlock Holmes's attention is divided, the less likely he is to see the big picture."

"Are you- are you kidding me? Sherlock Holmes is smarter than you're obviously giving him credit for!"

"No, Doctor Watson, I am giving him the credit he is due. But it's a fact that a mind divided is a mind slowed." The woman smiled at him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Not to worry. This won't hurt... much."

As she moved to the side he saw a blonde woman in a business suit holding what seemed to be a cheese grater standing behind him.

"Not too much." The dark haired woman said to the blonde. "Just enough to make him... scream. _Nothing_ more than that."

"Yes, Ma'am." The blonde nodded at her.

"Wait!" John called after the woman. "Why would you want Sherlock Holmes's mind to be divided?"

She turned to him, smiling pragmatically. "Why, so I can pull off the greatest coup in the whole of history of course."

"What? Why? Who are you?"

"You may call me Miss Adler. Now, I have places to go, people to play... and you have a scream to give me."

"A scream?"

"Of course. One little scream is all I need... if that scream could be 'Sherlock' that would be wonderful."

"No." John said, setting his jaw,

"I was rather hoping you would say that. Adelle does so love it when they struggle. Enjoy yourselves, dearies. Ta!"

With that she walked out of the door, leaving John staring at 'Adelle'. Adelle merely gave him a smirk before she moved to his side.

**GORE! SKIP IF THIS SQUICKS!**

A snick of a knife blade and John tensed.

The tearing of fabric as she cut off his trouser leg, nicking him in quite a few places in the process. John inhaled sharply.

Adelle seemed unfazed, as she brought the cheese grater to his inner thigh.

"What... No. Come on... please... no..."

But Adelle merely smiled serenely at him and brought the blades of the grater down, moving it in a direction opposite to his hair follicles.

John grit his teeth against the pain as the grater pulled out the sensitive hairs.

Then came the stroke in the opposite direction- and this time his skin was sloughed off.

_Come on John... that was all right. Mostly dead skin cells. Basic biology._

Which was when he stopped thinking. Because the forward and backward motion of the grater was sloughing off living flesh now and it _hurt_.

There was blood all around the wounds now, dripping from the sensitive skin of his thighs and making obscene splashing noises as they met the dirty cement floor.

And all the while Adelle hummed Pie Jesu under her breath.

Making sure not to miss a single spot on the abused patch of skin.

A low whine of pain escaped John.

Honestly, he'd never had much of a pain threshold, and watching his leg being _grated_ off was taking a serious toll on him.

He felt nausea well up in his throat as he watched more flesh ripped from his inner thigh.

Then there was the grating of bone against metal.

John Watson screamed in pure agony.

Somewhere far away, Irene Adler smiled in satisfaction.

**OKAY- OPEN YOUR EYES NOW**

NX-SH-NX

"Here you are sirs." The butler said, leading an intent Sherlock and gaping Chris into a study.

"Woah... this place is _huge_! Wait- did you just call me _sir_?" Chris asked in outrage. But the butler had already disappeared.

Sherlock meanwhile had headed for the safe and was currently in the process of cracking it.

"I can't believe it... this is why I usually wear sexier things."

"Shut up."

"Ugh. Fine." Chris sighed as she threw herself into the chair, before casting a glance over the desk.

Frowning, she picked up a purple envelope. The address and the name was impeccably calligraphied onto the envelope, with a little heart under the name.

"Uhm, Sherlock, you're the expert here. Do men usually do hearts and shit when they're writing?"

"Of course not." He snapped at her.

"Okay..." Chris trailed off, looking at the rest of the desk.

It didn't take her long to be bored and she was just getting ready to snap at Sherlock to get out of the way and give her a crack at the safe when the door swung open.

Chris let out a low whistle.

The inside of the safe was filled with three stacks of money (she'd give a rough estimate of there being at least seven hundred pounds in there), several tiaras, necklaces made of diamonds and gems and gold and three rings with diamonds as large as her thumbnail.

"What the fuck? All of that and the guy only stole fifty pounds and a family heirloom?"

"Yes. And the safe's not easy to crack either. It was a professional."

"He made it _look_ like a robbery..."

"Yes. The question being- why?"

"Maybe he really was out for revenge? Figured it would look more like a plausible robbery if he came back?"

"Don't be stupid! Or at least- not more stupid than you already are."

"Okay, Cupcake, let's hear your theory then."

"The man who stalked them was never one of the flat cap gang members. Why would he come all the way from America to chase a man who might or might not have money? And why would he rob him? No. It was never him..."

Just then Sherlock's mobile beeped an incoming message.

"John?" She asked, lackadaisically rifling through the man's desk once more.

"Homeless network. They've found him. A cheap hotel on the river banks."

"... Seriously? That's it?"

"Of course. It's as obvious as ever."

"Which was what you said last time, and it turned out to not be obvious."

"I thought we'd agreed it was a Russian Doll scenario."

"What? Oh, right."

"What's that?"

"This? It's why I asked about the hearts thing."

"Indeed. Well. Now I've seen it I am more sure about this than ever." Sherlock said, striding out of the room. "And this time, I'm driving."

"What? No- no way! I am _not_ letting you drive Stacey!" She shouted as she ran after him.

"Stacey? I never too you for the kind to name your cars..."

"I didn't. The techie I'm borrowing her from did."

"Ah. That was not a completely idiotic move perhaps."

"Hey- did you just compliment me?"

"Of course not."

"Right. Couldn't ever do that, could we?"

"That would imply you are intelligent."

"And I could never be."

"Everyone's stupid."

"Except Moriarty."

"Even he's not that smart."

"So you have _exacting_ standards then."

"Yes."

"Great. But I'm still driving."

Sherlock pursed his lips together and promptly tried to pick pocket her. But Chris managed to catch his hand in the act. Giving him a grin.

"Mycroft's lackey, remember? So let go of the keys."

"No." Sherlock said, just as he pulled the keys away from her.

Chris, being unprepared for the action, found herself struggling to keep hold of them and thus being dragged unwillingly along with them before her fingers finally slipped.

Sherlock promptly held them out of her reach and gave her that smug smile.

Chris promptly jumped him- wrapping her legs around his waist as she tried to climb up his arm to the keys. Sherlock staggered at her action before steadying himself against a wall.

"Give me!" Chris exclaimed as she continued to reach for the jingling things.

"No!"

"Give here!"

"No!"

"I'm driving!"

"You're being moronic."

"And you're being childish!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Oh my!" For the second time that day, the two found themselves staring at Mrs Catherine Carstairs, who was blushing a violent shade of red.

Chris cleared her throat and untangled herself from Sherlock's hips. Sherlock promptly gave her a strange look as she plastered on a sheepish grin for Mrs Carstairs.

"Sorry. My brother and I get a little carried away sometimes..."

"Your brother?" Mrs Carstairs wondered.

"Yes. She's married." Sherlock gave her a charming smile as well.

"Oh! Well..."

"Do you have any siblings?" Sherlock asked.

"No, no. I'm an only child."

"Ah," Chris smiled warmly at her, "see, that's why you're confused. It's a sibling thing."

"Indeed." Sherlock gave her another smile as he turned towards the door. "Now if you'll excuse us, we have a break-in to report."

"Of course. Have a nice evening." Mrs Carstairs waved at them.

"And you!" Chris waved back, before trying to pinch the keys from Sherlock with her other hand. She failed.

"Goddamit Sherlock! If you total Stacey..."

"I am a brilliant driver, thank you."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

NX-SH-NX

**GORE AND OTHER DISTURBING THINGS. **

When Lestrade came to again, it was to a dull throbbing all over his body.

And a strange sore numbness from his right hand, which felt as though it had been left in the freezer too long. With a hiss, he tried to move it, only to find that it was taped to the side of something metallic. And it was stiff... covered in ice as it was.

Lestrade took in a large breath as he realized that he was most probably going to lose his dominant hand to frost bite.

"Ah, awake are we?" The voice which haunted him sounded from right behind his left ear. "I was starting to think maybe I'd killed my new toy..."

And there it was, the cool kiss of a knife blade running along his left shoulder.

"You know, I enjoy our time together so much... it's just lovely." A finger caressed the skin that the blade had already covered.

Then the blade drove down into his skin and seemed to stay there forever, coming away with a chunk of his flesh from the junction of his neck and shoulder.

A finger dipped into the bloody mess, followed shortly by a probing tongue, and then a mouth that seemed quite intent on sucking every last drop of blood from him whilst letting the tongue poke itself into the wound and causing him to screech into the cloth covering his mouth.

When the mouth removed itself, Lestrade felt he would faint with relief, and tried to focus on the pain of his hand.

"Hm, how delicious are you Detective! All that righteousness! Yummy. Oops! Must be careful not to let you bleed to death..."

And then there was a burning, stinging sensation in the wound as coarse salt was rubbed into it.

Followed by a scorching pain as hot metal was pressed into the wound.

By this time Lestrade was screamed hoarse into the cloth, thrashing about wildly as he tried to free himself from the restraints, with tears running down his face.

"There now... smell that, my dear Detective? That is the second best smell in the world..." The man said, sniffing the air.

It reeked of burnt flesh and Lestrade's piss.

"All fear and desperation. Ah, these are a few of my favourite things."

The hot metal moved from the missing chunk of flesh, around his neck and down his back. All the while making the sizzling sound of flesh burning and letting the stench become worse.

When it reached his coccyx, it paused. And then it was removed.

Lestrade closed his eyes in silent thanks to the deities that it seemed to be over, until the metal was pressed into the sensitive flesh, having been reheated.

"Hm, yes. Scream for me, my Angel of Music!" The monolith laughed in pleasure.

The sound of a zipper going down renewed Lestrade's struggles against his bonds, until a knife cut into the newly made burn.

"Stay still, Detective. I've got a boyfriend- I wouldn't touch an ugly bastard like you."

That was when the warm stream of piss hit his back and Lestrade found himself puking into the gag.

When the stream was done, the monolith zipped himself up again and brought his lips next to Lestrade's ear.

"But I will think of you when I fuck my pretty little boyfriend tonight. Just because your blood is so sweet... even if the rest of you is too ugly to touch."

**OKAY. OPEN YOUR EYES NOW. **

NX-SH-NX

"Sally! Sally!" The voice of Anderson penetrated the darkness that seemed to have engulfed her. "She's coming round... Sally, can you hear me?"

Sally Donovan let a groan be her answer.

"Alright, let's get her up." Dimmock's voice came, just as someone helped her into a sitting position.

She groaned again and finally managed to pry her eyes open.

She was met by the worried faces of her co-workers.

"Sally- what happened?" Anderson was holding her up, with a sweet look of concern on his face.

It was at times like these she remembered that they were having an affair, but it wasn't just the no-commitment sex that kept them together. It was the knowing that they had someone to lay with, without the mortgage and the kids and the pressure to keep up the happily ever after that people expected from married people.

They were just... there. When they needed each other.

Some days, she could see them with a future. She could picture them sharing a living space and she could picture them sharing a bed all the time.

Sometimes she could imagine that they fell in love. The good old fashioned way.

But then she'd remember what her marriage had been like, and she threw away all those idiotic fairy tale notions.

This was enough.

It was all she could give.

"Sally?" Anderson sounded frantic now.

"I'm... fine. Just got a headache... John!" She surged upwards, and immediately regretted it when she was assaulted by both vertigo and nausea at the same time.

Anderson managed to catch her, and Dimmock shoved a waste paper basket under her just in time for her to empty the contents of her stomach.

"Damn it... means you have a concussion!" Anderson snapped.

"They took him! John Watson- they took him!" She gasped between heaves.

"Who, exactly?" Dimmock asked.

"The paramedics. They took him- he had food poisoning. And when I told them I was family... the one pistol whipped me."

"The paramedics? Do you think it could be Moriarty?" Dimmock asked.

"I don't know... what I do know is that this is now a crime scene." Anderson snapped. "Everybody stand back! We need to process this place!"

"Yeah... I need to get up now..." Sally said, as she tried to get up again.

"Absolutely not!" Dimmock snapped at her. "We're getting you to hospital!"

The entirety of the team stopped and looked at him, causing the detective to give him a look that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud.

"Right. Well, I'll take you." He said, rubbing at his weary eyes. "That should get you to Bart's."

"Right. And I'll process this scene." Anderson nodded, before turning back to her. "Will you be...?"

"Of course." She snapped at him. She didn't want him to think this was more than it was. "Get back to work." She said with softer eyes.

"Right then, let's get you into the car, Donovan."

"Yes, sir."

It took another officer and Dimmock to help her get there, but they did. And then they were off- Sally trying to keep her eyes open in accordance with Anderson's directions.

Dimmock tried to help by keeping up a steady stream of conversation as they drove to the hospital. Though Sally wished he wouldn't- his voice grated on her headache.

The final turning to the hospital was just up ahead when Sally noticed a blur from her right side.

She barely had time to scream before the black SUV crashed into the driver's side of the car.

And then the tangled wreck skidded to a halt a mere block away from the hospital.

NX-SH-NX

Mycroft Holmes smiled placidly at the members of parliament and royal family who were present for the evening.

It wasn't as of he needed to truly be here. They were all blissfully unaware of the schemes he was in charge of, unwitting of the fact that he ran most of their programs, made most of their decisions...

They were all in the very palm of his hand.

"Hello, Mister Holmes." A female voice beside him said.

He recognised her as the new Minister of Defense's wife.

"Ah, Mrs..."

"Please, call me Irene. After all, partners should be on first name basis." She smiled at him, her ruby red lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.

"Ah, and what... business would that be, Ma'am?"

"Oh, the business of doing business."

"Well, this has been very adorable, but I have work actually..."

"Not so fast Mister Holmes. I have something very dear to your brother- and as such, dear to you."

"Mrs. Adler- yes. I am fully aware of the fact that you kept your maiden name."

"Just watch." She said, holding up her phone and beginning to play a video.

A video of John Watson being tortured- and letting out a single piercing scream. The audio turned just low enough that only they could hear.

Mycroft's face went wooden.

"And what makes you think I care?"

"Your face- it just went rigid. That means you care, my dear Mycroft."

"And if I do?"

"Then I want but a small favour..."

"Never, Mrs Adler. We do not negotiate with terrorists."

She gave him another coy smile. "Perhaps you don't, but I hear your brother is as clean and pure as the driven snow... I bet I can catch him and eat him alive."

Mycroft let a single smirk cross his mouth. "You can try, Mrs Adler. But I doubt you'll have much luck. My brother has... protection."

"I kidnapped Doctor Watson from New Scotland Yard. What makes you think I can't show this to your brother?"

"You can show it to him, Mrs Adler, but I assure you. You will not lay a hand on my brother."

A smirk crossed her mouth. "Never underestimate me, Mycroft. By the time I'm done, you'll beg me to reconsider."

NX-SH-NX

"Jesus, Sherlock! That gap was big enough for two of these vans!" Chris said exasperatedly.

"It was not- now let me drive woman!" Sherlock snapped back.

"I would- if you didn't drive like a ninety year old woman! My grandmother used to drive faster than you!"

"Shut up!"

"No! And what the... I'm pretty sure you can't go up there..."

"Of course I can. Roadworks up ahead if we don't."

"... You're a SatNav too? Handy."

"I know these roads."

"Obviously. Pity you're a piss poor driver really..."

It was at this moment that they stopped in front of a seedy looking building that was situated in a highly industrial area near the Thames. It proclaimed itself to be a backpacker's hostel- with room and board for only twenty quid a night.

"Shit. This is it?"

"Yes." Sherlock said as he climbed out of the van and a boy, around nineteen and sporting an obvious drug habit slunk over to him. Chris scrambled out after him.

"Hey, Sherlock. You promised twenty quid for the info, right?"

"Yes. How did you find him, Ross?"

"I didn't- Marco over there did." He pointed over his shoulder, towards a much smaller boy of around fifteen who looked as though he were also addicted to whatever Ross was using.

Marco, however, looked terrified at the sight of Chris.

"What-? You never said nothing about the fuzz Ross!" The boy looked positively petrified.

"Oi, it's okay mate. I'm not from the fuzz." Chris held up her hand placatingly.

Sherlock shot her a look, but she just grinned lopsidedly to him.

"You're not? Then what're you doing over here? What with Sherlock and all?"

"Whatever I want- 's not hard to guess what a bloke and a fit bird are doing out together now is it?"

"... Guess not." Marco said, huddling his arms around him. "But this is as far as I go, got it?"

"Sure mate. Here- go have a pint on me for finding us some of the info."

Marco took the twenty pound note and made himself scarce.

Chris turned around to see Sherlock still giving her a thoughtful look.

"What? It comes with the job." She said defensively, and he gave her one of his thin lipped smiles.

"No it doesn't."

"Shut up. Are we here to catch this guy and save Lestrade or not?"

"Yes. Lead the way Ross."

"Sorry, can't. Gotta scarper- this place is like catnip to the fuzz." Ross replied, before promptly disappearing.

"So, looks like it's just us." Chris said, putting her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants.

"So, how much time did you spend on the street? I'd say about a year and a half."

"And I'd say it's none of your fucking business." Chris snapped at him, heading into the filth that was the Backpacker's Paradise.

"Oi. We're looking for a bloke that has a scar over his left cheek and who wears a flat cap." She snapped at the man that was reading his paper behind the front desk.

"You the fuzz?" He gave her a lacklustre look.

"You wish we were the fuzz." She snarled at him, hoisting him over the counter. "Now where is he?"

"Alright, alright!" The man said placatingly. "He's in Four-oh-five!"

"Take us there." Sherlock demanded.

"Okay- but first your bird here has to let me go!"

Chris set him back down and he got a set of keys, then headed down a hallway and up three flights of stairs. Chris followed him in much the same way that thunder seemed to follow lighting.

When they reached the correct room, the desk man unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Only to reveal the body of the Flat Capped Man.

NX-SH-NX

**A/N:** Okay... I'm officially worried about myself. A cheese grater? Really?

**Irene Adler** is (hopefully) still cool, but I wrote this before season 2 came out, so yes. Here she is- still on her own mission for world domination. Which, you know, would have been nice if she hadn't messed with John. But never fear- Sherlock is on the case.

Also: **Relationship development**! And only seven chapters in ! This is a blazingly fast development for me! Go me! ;P

Still- was episode 3 ever an awesome one! DeadTeenWalking and I were watching it and going all over the emotional range. We're also both firm Sholly shippers now. :D

**Special thanks** to DeadTeenWalking- for her support and her help. She is a great friend. Really. And I'm sorry that I used one of your fears for my torture scene- it wasn't on purpose.

**Thank you**: for your alerts/reviews/C2 additions! Especially to **kelly1981**, who has been a very faithful and lovely reviewer.

Too obvious? Too disturbing? Think I should be locked up for the good of mankind? **Review** to let me know.


	9. Shooting a Straight Six

**Chapter 8**

"Well shit. Does this mean you lose?" Chris asked into the silence of the room.

"Lose? Freaks..." The desk-man muttered.

"Fuck off." Chris told him in a much calmer voice than she had used before.

Sherlock, meanwhile seemed to be engrossed in solving this particular mystery, already sniffing about the room and taking in everything with his sharp eyes.

"Not until I get mine- you want me to keep quiet to the fuzz, you need to pay." The desk man said, crossing his arms and looking dead set on his course of action.

"We're not the kind of people to be scared off by threats of the fuzz. Now, again, before I lose my temper: Fuck. Off."

"I know the price- Urgh!" The man exclaimed from his position on the rug, where Chris had carelessly flung him before holding her Glock to his neck.

"I hate having to repeat myself: fuck off or I blow your brains out."

"A-alright! I'm going!" The man managed to stutter out through the sweat coursing down his face.

"Good. And keep quiet, unless you want me to shoot you like the filthy mutt you are." Chris said as she threw him to the first step on the landing. "No- scurry off!"

The desk-man did indeed scurry off into the dingyness of the hostel.

"Fucking desk-men. They're always a problem..." Chris muttered.

"Visit dingy hostels often, do you?" Sherlock queried from where he was busy looking at something under his magnifying glass.

"Not really. But no matter how high brow an accommodation is, if there's someone behind a desk, they're a problem."

"Fascinating."

"Really?" Chris frowned.

"Not you- this." He suddenly snapped himself upright and gestured towards the room. "No footprints." He expanded, when he saw the look of confusion on her face.

"Oh- of course! That explains everything!"

"Really?"

"Of course not! What the fuck does 'no footprints' mean?"

"Come now, woman! Surely you must be familiar with killing someone?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Would you leave footprints?"

"Wouldn't matter. I have people to clean up behind me."

"Clean up... Of course... Oh, yes. Of course!" Sherlock said as he headed for the stairs, leaving a bewildered Chris behind him.

"What? Sherlock! Wait up!" She cried, running off after him.

She took the stairs three at a time to keep up with those long legs, and when they finally arrived at the ground floor she thanked all the deities that she was still as fit as she was after having spent so much time in nothing but the gym.

"Seriously Sherlock, what's up?"

"Someone cleaned up here." He said, rushing to the side where the flat cap man's window was visible. "They used the fire escape..."

"Seems obvious." Chris agreed with him.

"And then someone cleaned up."

"... So you're saying _Mycroft_ killed the guy?"

"Why Mycroft?" He turned and asked her.

"Erm... I just... well, you know..."

"Because you assume it was a spy. And Mycroft owns all the spies- in the UK."

"... A spy from somewhere else?"

"I doubt it. Though you are more intimately acquainted with the mechanics I assume."

"Then who?"

"Do clean up crews generally leave bodies?"

"Not unless they want to get themselves burned."

"So. Body left deliberately- clean up was obvious."

"Moriarty?"

"You need to ask?"

"Hey, for once I'm not the paranoid one."

"Indee-..." Those sharp eyes of his alighted on something behind Chris, and then he was off after it.

"What the-? Sherlock! Fucking..." Chris shouted, heading after him at full tilt. She jogged whenever she had the chance, which hadn't been a lot since the month or so since she had joined the Yard (she was bad with dates- could it possibly be a month? Three? A week?) and had come to a complete stand still in the time that Lestrade had gone missing.

There was also the matter of leg length- she could catch him on the short stretches because she was nimble and trained- but on longer stretches those legs would be the death of her.

That and the fact that she was suddenly facing a busy t-juntion and couldn't hear the tapping of those expensive shoes.

Turning her head like a hound on the scent she startled at a noise behind her, half turning before she heard the explosion of a bullet being expelled from the barrel of a gun.

A tearing sensation as metal met flesh of her left shoulder, and she knew, could feel with the certainty of a trained killer that is was close, too close, to her heart.

The coppery scent of blood.

The jolt of hard pavement under her knees.

The stinging kiss of asphalt against her cheek.

Lights, tyre screeching, horns honking, people shouting.

Her breathing becoming louder in her ears.

Finally: darkness.

NX-SH-NX

John groaned as he felt himself coming round again.

It hurt- especially in his inner thigh- but he must have been dosed with morphine since it was nowhere near the level of pain he _knew_ he should be feeling.

The quiet unnerved him as well, seeing as how his screams had painted the room black the last time he had been conscious.

Trying to not give in to the rising panic he looked about the room for clues. The first thing he noticed was that his leg was bandaged.

The next was that the room was utterly featurless concrete.

There was a single, heavy iron door directly in front of him.

His wrists and ankles were taped to the chair- a heavy, wrought iron thing that had a seat that he assumed was also wrought since it was currently digging painfully into the flesh of his nether regions.

But other than that, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

_Sherlock would probably be able to immediately know his kidnapper from this._ He thought, wistfully.

As though summoned by his thoughts the heavy door began to swing open, revealing the woman from last night.

_Adler,_ John thought to himself, _she told me to call her Miss Adler_.

She gave him a thin-lipped smile as she gazed on him with her dark brown eyes, removing her gloves.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

"Uh, hi." He was hesitant about this whole thing to be honest. Kidnappers talking to you never ended well in his experience.

"Now, now. No reason for you to be nervous. I got what I wanted." With that she snapped her fingers, and two burly men appeared through the door. "And I am a woman of my word."

"You're... excuse me, you're just going to let me go?"

"Of course not, Doctor. I am hardly finished- and so I need dear Sherlock to be confused still. Poor dear. And if I let you go, then who will keep him steady? No, no. I need him to... burn."

"You... you're with Moriarty!"

"Moriarty? Never. I am a woman with her own schedule Doctor. But enough of this. You are not to be harmed, just kept out of the way."

The two burly men untied him, and he tried for a right hook on the one but the blood loss must have made him weaker than he had thought because it came as barely a tap.

The man he had tried to hit gave him a smirk.

Which was when it hit him: it was the man Chris had managed to catch on the camera footage.

"You! You have Lestrade!" He accused the woman.

She frowned at him. "How could you possibly... of course. The hacker. Not to worry Doctor, she is no longer a threat."

"What? What do you mean? Let me go... what have you done to them?"

"Relax Doctor, Sherlock will not be harmed. At least, not physically." She smiled that thin smile of her again.

"And what about the hacker? What about Chris?"

"An easily sacrificed pawn. Don't cry Doctor- I'm sure she didn't feel a thing."

"No... no... Stop this! What's Sherlock ever done to you?" John asked, fighting with all of his fading strength against the two men who were currently dragging him out of the door.

"Nothing. He's just the Knight."

And then she was out of sight and he was dragged through a corridor that was just as featureless as the rest of the place. He seemed to be dragged forever before the woman who had tortured him- Adelle- came into sight.

John struggled again, not trusting this Adler woman an inch, but she merely held the door to the cell open.

He was thrown inside and heard the door clang shut before he even hit the floor.

Soft carpet met his palms when he did hit it, and he opened his eyes in surprise. The cell- for it was that despite its looks- was richly decorated in opulent red and gold.

The huge four poster bed sported a heavy duvet, with a fuzzy blanket laid over the edge. And the walls were white, with a white and gold pattern occasionally painted on them.

The carpet was opulent and soft and red and John laid his cheek on it, finally giving in to the exhaustion his blood loss had brought on.

NX-SH-NX

Dimmock became aware of a bright light shining into his eyes and tried to lift his arm to bat at the source.

"He's regaining consciousness!" A female voice cried out. "There now- just lie still." It soothed him.

"Wh-? Whe-?" He croaked out.

"Just relax, sir. You're in St. Bartholomews Hospital A&E."

And then it hit him like the SUV had- Sally's concussion, the accident, Watson being missing...

"Donovan..." He croaked again.

"Is that your name sir?"

"... No."

"Is that the woman who was in the car with you?"

"Yes."

"Right." And then the light disappeared to reveal a young blonde standing over him. "What's your name then?"

"Dimmock... James Dimmock."

"Right then, Mister Dimmock, no need to worry. You should be fine after surgery."

"Surgery...?"

"You've ruptured your spleen. Not to worry..."

"Donovan!"

"Donovan... has to go into surgery as well. Who are your emergency contacts?"

"The Yard..."

"The Yard? You're a policeman?"

Dimmock tried to nod at her, and she gave him a small smile. "Well, then. Just relax- we'll get everything sorted here."

"But..."

"Get those doors open! Move! Just relax, Officer Dimmock, everything will be fine."

And that was when his world went black once more.

NX-SH-NX

Something was wrong.

Sherlock knew it before he realized why.

The 'why' part was that the figure he had been chasing had disappeared into the London night life as though it were a ghost.

Which was when he realized that he had left that confounded woman behind.

He nimbly clambered up the nearest building's fire escape and looked for her in the crowd of drunks and other unsavoury people.

The screech of sirens interrupted the night three blocks down, but she was nowhere to be found. She must have gotten herself lost like the idiot she was. What a useless tail to put on him. He would have to let Mycroft know in the least kind manner he could think of.

Frowning, he clambered back down and used his map of London to retrace his steps.

He arrived at a corner where a large crowd had gathered around an ambulance, the paramedics frantically loading the person onto the stretcher and a cabbie frantically giving a police officer an account of what seemed to be a hit and run.

And then the crowd parted to reveal a patch of black hoody with 'Star Wars' on the arm.

Surely it couldn't be.

Even Mycroft's lackeys were generally trained better than that.

But he made his way through the crowds just as they finished loading up the body and a single look at that mop of blood matted hair was enough for him to jump into the ambulance.

"Excuse me!" The paramedic shouted at him.

"Oh my God! Chris! Christine! What happened?" He said, eyes tearing up and looking pleadingly at the paramedic who had objected.

"Just get moving- at least he knows her!" The other paramedic snapped.

"Fine! Just get clear!" The first snapped at him.

Sherlock moved back without too much of a fuss, letting them work on the suddenly still girl beneath the oxygen mask.

He noted with detachment that she had been shot- the bullet just barely missing her heart and instead severing a major artery, burying itself into the flesh of her shoulder.

She was bleeding at a rate that made it quite possible she would not survive the trip to the hospital, never mind anything else. Still, at least he knew where the bullet was- and they would be at Bart's so he could examine it as soon as possible.

Obviously the shot had gone astray since she had been turning toward her attacker, and the attacker hadn't taken another shot at her because she had fallen into the well lit road, where the cabbie had almost hit her.

The attention then attracted by the public had driven the assailant off.

But why was she shot? Had it been meant for him? Or perhaps an old enemy of her own? Surely she had some?

With less detachment, he noted that when she was actually still and pale like this, she seemed... incredibly small. Fragile even, in a way that made him think of Molly.

When she was awake she was more like a tornado- taking everyone into its firm grip even as a mild mannered alter ego.

It was... strange.

If he had never known her except for this moment, he would never have thought her to be a person of any value. Just another victim. Boring.

A sudden jerky stop and the paramedics were scrambling to unload her. Sherlock held back until they were well clear, before he finally followed them into the A&E at a much more sedate pace.

"Sir, no one is allowed in here."

"B-but she's my wife..." Cue more crocodile tears.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait in the waiting room. And fill in these forms as well." The nurse shoved a pile of paperwork at him, and Sherlock grimaced.

"Surely not..."

"All of it sir." The nurse gave him a strict look. "The doctor will let you know ass soon as she's out of surgery."

Sherlock sighed as he sprawled in one of the horrible plastic chairs in the waiting room. This was a lot of trouble to go through for a simple bullet fragment, really. But returning to the Yard was... not an appealing thought.

And besides, Mycroft would undoubtedly blame him if his minion died.

So, with a put upon sigh he started on the paperwork.

It was dull, boring and just ridiculous. He certainly didn't think that Mycroft actually counted as her emergency contact- but it would annoy him that Sherlock had given out his contact details.

Just then a harried looking Anderson rushed in to the waiting room.

"I'm here for Sally Donovan and Detective Inspector Dimmock." He said to the indifferent nurse behind the desk.

"Family members only." She said in a monotone voice.

"I'm both their emergency contact."

"Fine. Fill this in."

He took the paperwork, but nearly dropped it again when he came face to face with Sherlock himself.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! What are you doing skulking around here?" The annoyance was clear in his voice.

"That..." A look at the nurse showed her carefully looking at both of them. "... bastard shot my darling Chris."

Anderson raised an eyebrow. "Sally and James were in a car accident."

"Really..." And with that he steered Anderson further into the waiting room where they could talk without being overheard.

"Tell me everything."

NX-SH-NX

When Lestrade managed to drag himself back into consciousness, he heard raised voices from the deck above him.

"You promised me he'd break by now!" An angry male voice that belonged to The Monolith's boyfriend exclaimed in outrage.

"He's stubborn!" The monolith countered.

"He's a detective- not a spy!"

"Maybe they've started inserting moles into the Yard!"

"You're just enjoying this!"

"... Jealous?"

"I need to know she's safe! That was the deal!"

A cruel laugh followed this statement. "Oh, I remember- your sweet virgin arse for the safety of your little princess."

"Then get me the information, and keep him!"

"Now why would I do that? I have you both at my mercy here... in the middle of the oce-" His sentence was interrupted by the loud bang of a gun.

A thud on the deck above him had Lestrade struggling for his life against the bonds holding him captive. Without the boyfriend the Monolith would have no incentive to keep his hands to himself.

This could go very wrong, very quickly.

Grunting above him as the body was dragged across the deck, and then a splash as the body was dumped over board.

With the last of his strength Lestrade threw his chair sideways onto the floor of the boat, desperately hoping to hear the sound of wood splintering. But it was all for nought, and footsteps were descending the stairs.

A gasp of shock caught his attention, before footsteps came to his side and righted the chair he was on.

The blindfold was torn from his eyes and he blinked in the sudden dim light.

The man that was looking at him now seemed thin and fragile- and suddenly he could understand the Monolith's comments about his boyfriend being pretty.

He looked a bit like Chris really.

Which was when it hit him- Chris was the daughter they'd been shouting about.

"You- you're Chris's dad." He ground out of his parched throat.

The man turned grim. "Yes, but let's get you cleaned up and fed first."

Lestrade wasn't going to argue with that.

NX-SH-NX

James Moriarty sighed as he looked at the clock, the sounds of Mozart blaring from the speakers in the room.

"Tsk, tsk. It seems the great Sherlock Holmes has met his match. Oh well, maybe I'm just lacking the... _right incentive_. Either way my friend, your time in this world is up."

A shadow detatched itself nimbly from the surrounding blackness, revealing it to be a young boy with brown hair and vivid green eyes.

"Kill him." Moriarty intoned. "And for God's sakes- get me the _right_ one this time! I tire of rookie mistakes!"

The boy nodded, before pulling out a silenced gun and putting a bullet through the head of the man on the table.

A man who looked almost identical to one Detective Inspector Lestrade.

NX-SH-NX

Mycroft Holmes was enjoying breakfast at the Manor, when his PA entered with a staccato rhythm of high heels and urgency.

"Sir."

"Yes."

"It's Sherlock sir..."

"Surely he can't have gotten past Miss Taylor already."

"That's just it sir... Miss Taylor has been shot."

"Shot?" Mycroft said, quickly putting down his cup of tea and reaching for the file she held.

"Yes sir. The prognosis is grim. John Watson has disappeared. And Donovan and Dimmock have been in a serious car crash.

Taylor, Donovan and Dimmock are all currently in surgery. At the moment, the only members of the team that are still active are Sherlock and Anderson."

"What is this?"

"I wish I knew sir." The woman didn't seem happy. "But we did find a business card stuck on the door of the Manor sir."

"A business card?"

"Yes sir. It just says: 'The Woman. When you just need to talk.' And then a number."

"The Woman? Who do you..."

The sound of a phone ringing interrupted the conversation, and Mycroft sighed as he put it on speaker phone.

"Yes?"

"Mister Holmes. There is a problem."

"What kind of problem, Jeremy?" He asked the Queen's aide.

"The kind that requires the service of both the Holmes brothers."

Mycroft thinned his lips. "Very well. We shall be there tomorrow morning at nine a.m. Sharp."

"... Discretion is of the utmost importance."

"Of course. Discretion shall be the key word here."

NX-SH-NX

**A/N:** Haha. Irene is having so much fun. And I'm having even more fun! Poor Mycroft. Not really sure what to say about this chapter to be honest...

Thank **DeadTeenWalking** for the faster than light update. Honestly! I'm going to go hide now- I don't think she'll be thrilled about Chris's state at the moment. Oops?

**Thank you**: for your alerts/reviews/C2 additions!

Are you glad Chris is near death? Think I should just kill her off? Think Sherlock should be relieved? Or scared? **Review** to let me know.


	10. Crumbling Hearts

**Chapter 9**

"So... Let me get this straight- you didn't originally kidnap me?" Lestrade asked in confusion, blowing on his heavily sweetened coffee as Chris's father cleaned the wounds on his back.

"No. Dan managed to find where they were holding you and extract you- he was an ex-mercenary. Rhodesian- the most deadly kind."

"I thought that was Mossad." Lestrade said dryly.

"Actually, Mossad doesn't really produce a lot of mercenaries. Rhodesia, South Africa and America are the ones that generally produce mercenaries."

"Wouldn't the Americans be the ones you should be worried about?"

"Have you ever met a Rhodesian? Not a Zimbabwean- though they're pretty tough as well- a proper, old school Rhodesian? They're the guys that joke about the smell as maggots eat through their gangreen infested limbs."

"... That doesn't sound healthy, to be honest."

"I never said it was. But they're good."

"And... Uhm..."

"You need to understand, Detective Inspector, I am not an innocent man. But... I'm afraid that my daughter's paying for my sins."

"That's why you want to know about her."

"Yes. I need to know... I need to know that she's alright. That I'm mistaken. Just being a dad, overprotective of my princess..."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, to be honest. She seems fine... handles herself surprisingly well in a fight. Gets on Sherlock's nerves. Quiet, earnest, hard working. Enjoys a bit of hacking."

"That's why she's working for you now."

"Well, yeah. But if you went to prison it's not uncommon for kids to kind of... lash out."

"She should be past that."

"I'd hardly say you could put a time frame on this sort of thing, really."

"Maybe."

"You know, I wouldn't beat myself up too much. She seems fine, really."

"Do you know why I went to prison?"

"Uhm, can't say I do really..."

"Because I hacked into some files I wasn't supposed to. I didn't mean to- but it still ended up destroying my life."

"So you're afraid the apple doesn't fall far from the tree?"

"The people who I accidentally hacked, they're powerful. And not the type to let grudges go."

"You make it seem like some sort of huge conspiracy theory."

"Have you ever heard of the House of Silk?"

"Can't say I have..."

"It _is_ a conspiracy theory. The biggest conspiracy theory in the world."

"... Alright."

"Still. I only need you to tell me a few things, and then you can go."

"What- just like that?"

"It was never supposed to go beyond that."

"Oh, well then... what do you want to know."

"This Sherlock fellow- is he related to Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yeah. How did you-?"

"And does he try to protect his little brother?"

"Of course. He keeps trying to put tails on him, but they always fail."

"I see." The man walked in front of Lestrade, bowing his head over the first aid kit he had been using. "Did you know that Chris wanted to be an actuary?"

Thrown by the non sequiteur Lestrade shook his head. "It wasn't in her file."

The man gave him a thin smile. "No, I don't suppose they put things like that in files."

A snap as the kit was closed and then he turned once more to Lestrade, but a sudden beeping noise caught his attention.

He took his mobile out of his pocket and paled as he read whatever was written on it.

"Oh no..." He choked, and Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"What is it?"

"It's my baby... she's in hospital... it looks really bad."

"Wha-? Chris? This has Sherlock written all over it. That boy..."

"This changes things. We need to go."

"Is this that House of Silk thing? Is it because of you?" Lestrade asked as he followed the man onto the deck, mindful of his injuries.

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out." The man said as he started to boat.

"Right. Well. I'm sure she'll be fine..."

"She'd better be, Detective Inspector. Or there'll be hell to pay."

NX-SH-NX

"Mister Holmes? Mister Holmes!"

Sherlock snapped back from his mind palace lighting fast and proceeded to glare at the scrubs-clad doctor.

"What?" He snapped.

"It's about your... Miss Taylor?"

"Mrs, actually, she kept her maiden name."

"Ah. Right. Well, it was touch and go most of the time, and we lost her a few times. But she's stable now. If you would like to see her now..."

"Perhaps. But first: the bullet."

"The bullet?" The surgeon looked shocked. "That's for the police..."

"I am the police." Sherlock snapped again, briefly flashing his badge at the surgeon, before gesturing to Anderson, who had just emerged from the recovery ward where he had been visiting Donovan.

"And that is my forensics expert. Now- the bullet, Doctor, before I call your wife and tell her that you've been having an affair with six of the nurses. At a time."

"Why you-!"

"Bullet!"

"Fine. Have it!" The surgeon turned to snap at one of the nurses and finally the bullet was handed over to Sherlock.

"Good. Anderson!"

"What Sherlock? I'm tired..."

"Yes, yes. I am fully aware that your depressingly normal mind is about to shut off, but we need to find a boy."

"And?" Anderson snapped at him.

"Come now Anderson, surely you see the importance! No. Perhaps you don't..."

And then it was as though someone had pulled a rug from under him- all dizziness and vertigo and the feeling of floating. Voices suddenly surrounded him and he tried vainly to get a hold of his body, but it seemed quite determined to resist him.

_Damn it. _He thought vaguely. _Betrayed by my own body!_

"Sir, sir, sir! Can you hear me?" Silly nurse- of course he could hear her.

"I think it may be because he hasn't slept in... I actually don't know how long. Week, maybe more. And he hasn't eaten either..." Anderson's voice floated from somewhere, causing Sherlock to grit his teeth in annoyance.

The idiot- he knew what medical professionals would say to something to like that! His dislike of the man went up another few notches.

"And the shock of his wife..." The nurse said.

"Of course..." Anderson replied, hesitantly.

"Let's get him to a bed." She said, decisively.

"Noooo..." Sherlock managed to whine out, finally.

"Now sir, I promise I'll let you see your wife. But first you need to sleep for me, and we're going to get you on and IV for some fluids and vitamin B. You're far too thin..."

The feeling of being lifted and Sherlock mentally tried to calculate when last he had stopped to fuel his transport... three weeks and four days ago. That was when he'd stopped sleeping.

Food had last been ingested two weeks and one day ago.

Damn it all. He should have seen this coming.

A needle into his vein, and a soft pillow under his head. The feeling of liquids being pumped through his body, and a mild sedative joining the race for his mind.

And then the world went blissfully black.

NX-SH-NX

Irene Adler arched her back as she slipped her husband's aching cock into her thorougly wet entrance, raking her perfectly manicured nails down his chest.

"Ohhhhhhhhh..." She moaned in ecstasy, feeling him fill her to the very brim. "You're so big and gorgeous..."

The minister of defence gave a muffled exclamation of pride and pleasure from beneath his gag, lying spread eagled as he was tied to the bed with furry pink handcuffs.

Irene gave him a wicked smile as she gave lifted herself up until only the very tip of his penis was still inside of her, before she promptly rammed back onto his hips, causing the both of them to moan obscenely.

From there she set a tortuously slow rhythm of up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. Careful to constrict her walls as she moved, causing the man beneath her to squirm and moan and struggle to release himself from the handcuffs that were keeping him from touching her and taking control of the situation.

Feeling that they were both on the very edge, she promptly changed her pace to a more blazing one, her breasts moving up and down with the rest of her body and becoming smeared with the sweat of her efforts.

"Oh God!" She screamed, her entire body shaking with the force of her orgasm. She rode it out and mere moments later the gagged man screamed out in ecstasy.

Finally, Irene collapsed against his chest, breathing heavily.

Smiling like the cat who had caught the canary (and every other bird within a hundred sea mile distance as well) she finally removed the gag from the man.

"Ah, my dear Irene..." Her husband panted. "How is it that you're always hungry for another round? You make it hard to keep up..."

"Well, this was the eighth time tonight," She said as she drew nonsensical patterns on his chest, "that's why I did all the work- again."

Her husband made to go in for a kiss, but she put a hand between them. "Honestly dear. Go to sleep. I'll be hungry again tomorrow morning. I swear."

"I'm sure you will." Her husband smiled at her, before she released his handcuffs and he promptly spooned her.

It wasn't long before his snores filled the room, and she carefully released herself from his grip.

She padded over to her phone, smiling when she read the message on it.

"Good work boys. He's definitely isolated now..." She turned on her heels, moving from the room in the nude, and all the way to the guard room.

Stepping inside, she leaned seductively against the door frame, smiling at the three guards stationed there.

"Enjoy the show, did you?" She asked.

"Hm, maybe." The man John had recognised from the tapes smiled, taking her possessively around the waist.

Irene swatted him playfully, before stationing herself on the table the monitors were on.

"Then maybe we should have our own little performance..."

The three guards grinned at her.

NX-SH-NX

John Watson glared determinedly at the wall across from his bed.

He didn't know how long he had been locked in this damned room, all that he knew was that he had woken up in the bed. In pyjamas.

He hadn't fallen asleep in the bed. And he definitely hadn't been in nightclothes.

This was ridiculous.

He needed to get out of here- this woman was intent on hurting Sherlock, and he couldn't just sit around and let it happen.

He needed to get out of here.

But he'd also gone over the room with a fine tooth comb, spending his waking hours going over every bit of it, checking for cracks in the security and a way out.

There were no windows.

The door was (again) solid steel, and even if he could find something to pick the lock with he just wouldn't know _how_.

That was Sherlock's area.

And then he was right back to Sherlock. The man had probably already passed out from his sheer stubborn bloody mindedness in ignoring his body's most basic needs.

How long had it been since they'd last seen each other?

Would anyone bother telling the great big idiot that he needed to eat? And force him to sleep? Without Lestrade and himself there, nobody knew the trick to get Sherlock to eat enough to keep him going (it was to put yourself next to him with a plate and start eating, and if you were careful enough in avoiding looking at the plate and keeping the conversation up you could generally feed him most of the plate, since he'd nibble on the food without noticing.).

And what would this damned woman want with him? People never really wanted to meet Sherlock for any nice reason- and this woman had all his instincts screaming that she was pure danger.

He needed to get out of here.

Nevermind if his own stomach was growling its hunger at him, or that his leg seemed on fire every time it was moved.

As though summoned, the door grated open and Adelle stepped inside with a plate of cheese and bread on a trolley.

John glared at her- and more importantly- the giant form hulking behind her.

It seemed that they were far too smart to let her in without some form of guard.

She glanced at John, a shy glance that belied the fact that she had tortured him with a cheese grater a few... well. At the beginning of his time here.

She set the plate in front of him, glancing furtively at the hulk silhouetted in the doorway, and taking a bottle of water from her jacket.

She gave him a small smile before she exited.

John looked suspiciously at the water, but finally decided that it was probably in his best interests to drink it. Dehydration was not a pretty thing- and he still needed to get out of here.

He needed to get to Sherlock.

NX-SH-NX

Sherlock startled awake- very much aware that someone was watching him.

The woman, dressed in a nurse's uniform, was in her forties, married to a government official, and definitely not a nurse.

Grabbing her hand, he promptly shoved her away from him and gained his feet.

"What do you want!" He snapped, taking her wrist once more into his hand and twisting it so that she felt the pain. "Are you from _him_?"

"No!" She gasped, tearing up at the pain. "I came to warn you... you're in terrible danger Mister Holmes... there are people, powerful people, to whose attention you have come.

They will do anything, _anything_, to see you destroyed."

"And your interest in this matter would be? Being a good samaritan?"

"No. But, Mister Holmes... my husband would kill me if he knew I were here..."

"Indeed. And yet it is not your husband that is out to get me."

"No. No, he isn't. But Mister Holmes- Moriarty's not the only one who wants to play. What ever you do- do not get involved."

"And your reason for this?" He asked again, applying more pressure to her wrist. Feeling the pulse.

"Can't you tell, Sherlock? Surely your deductive skills haven't left you now?" She said, breathily.

The sound of three sets of dress shoes clattering down the hallway caused his attention to be divided and she took the opportunity to hit his own wrist on a nerve and duck out of the room's window.

The door swung open to reveal a nurse who was still trying to stop the three men from entering the room.

"... resting! You cannot simply..."

"Yes." Sherlock said, drawing himself up to his proper height and clutching the sheet protectively. "I am supposed to be resting. Look at me- I'm in a sheet."

The nurse tutted protectively at him.

"Mister Holmes, your services are needed." The one man said, holding out a set of his clothes. "You will come with us immediately."

"Really now?"

"Yes. Your destination is need to know."

Sherlock snorted at them. "I know _exactly_ where we're going."

"Then you will get dressed."

"No."

"Then you do not know..."

"Of course I do. Buckingham Palace- how stupid do you think I am?"

There was shocked silence all around, before the leader once more cleared his throat.

"Then you will get dressed."

"No."

"Then we have no choice..." The man said, gesturing to the other two, who stepped forward. "Either you leave on your own feet, or we drag you."

Sherlock gave a haughty sniff before he swept out of the door, his sheet swirling around him dramatically.

The three men and the nurse shared a look.

NX-SH-NX

Mycroft sighed as he entered a sitting room only to find his little brother in nothing more than a sheet and glaring murderously at the upholstery.

His little brother was sitting in the middle of Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet.

Closing his eyes and trying to find his centre before dealing with this… mess, he resented it when Sherlock snapped a curt "I was _busy_!" at him.

"For once in your life can you just _act_ like a responsible adult?"

"I. Was. Busy."

"Yes. That hacker- don't tell me you're growing attached."

Sherlock shot him a look that set Mycroft on edge, if only because he couldn't decipher it in the sharp nanosecond that it lasted.

"Of course not." Sherlock sniffed.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, wondering for a second whether his agent had been made before reminding himself that if that had been the case Sherlock would most certainly have lost her and stunk up the place with his superiority complex.

But if he had gotten attached…

It would get messy.

But that was a thought- a worry- for another time.

"Time to move on then…" An appraising glance at the nudeness and then, "We are in Buckingham Palace, for god's sake, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes- put your trousers on!"

"What for?" Sherlock doesn't quite pull off the unconcerned air, and Mycroft worries at this, the fact that slowly what little support structure his brother had managed to build up for himself has been ripped away despite their best efforts.

And now his agent is out of action, and to send a new one would be folly.

A fear grips Mycroft, a fear that he will once again fail his little brother and deserve all of the scorn the man- no, that little boy that he failed so many times- heaps upon him.

He turns it into exasperation as he answers: "Your client."

"And my client is?"

"Illustrious, in the extreme." A new voice says, "And remaining entirely anonymous. Mycroft!"

"Harry." Mycroft shakes hands with his 'friend'. "I must apologise for the state of my little brother."

Harry looks at Sherlock, who gazes at him with open assessment. "A full time occupation, I'd imagine."

A frisson of anger goes through Mycroft at that, but it doesn't, it _cannot_, show.

"Mycroft, I do not take anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Two sides is too much work." Sherlock starts walking for the door- still in that ridiculous sheet.

"This is a matter of national security." Mycroft says, foot trapping the sheet beneath it. "Grow up!"

"Let go of my sheet."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll keep walking."

"I'll let you."

And then Sherlock did the one thing Mycroft had hoped that he wouldn't: he let go of the bloody sheet.

"Sherlock!"

"Mycroft- do not test me. Who. Is. My. Client?"

Harry sniffed disdainfully at the entire affair, and Mycroft was immensely glad that he had been trained to never blush.

Sherlock was having a harder time at concealing his flush- though it would undoubtedly be ascribed to anger by other parties. A blessing and a curse.

"No, Sherlock, do not test _me_!"

"Goodbye Mycroft. Harry." Sneers all around it seemed, as Sherlock left.

Mycroft followed.

"For God's sakes!"

"No Mycroft! A most dangerous man is out there and he is carefully and efficiently taking out most of Scotland Yard. Or at least the most competent officers it has! This is not the time to be pandering…!"

"Sherlock! This is a matter of national security!"

"So is this! What do you think will happen if Moriarty is left loose much longer?" Sherlock snapped at him, once more letting Mycroft see a little of how scared he was of all of this.

Too many flashbacks.

Too many… _feelings_.

They stared at each other, before Mycroft handed Sherlock his clothes which he had grabbed on his way out.

"Sherlock- I _need_ you on this. I'm not asking you to give up on all your current activities. Just _look_ at the files. You needn't even leave the Yard or your apartment or wherever you'll be holing up. But this is _important_."

Sherlock must have seen something in his face, because he snatched both the file and the clothes from Mycroft's arms and proceeded to walk starkers from Buckingham Palace.

Mycroft closed his eyes, allowed himself a sigh, and turned to do damage control with Harry.

NX-SH-NX

Anderson groaned as he pulled himself from the cot that Molly had set up for him in her office, sleepily shutting off the alarm on his phone.

As if on cue, the door opened to reveal two cups of coffee and Molly Hooper.

"Oh, you're awake! I brought you some coffee." She gave him a shy smile.

"Thanks." He grunted, grabbing the cup and taking a gulp that burned all the way down and settled warmly in the pit of his stomach. "Got to get to the lab… ballistics."

"So you said." Molly nodded at him.

"Hm. Sherlock'll have a fit if he knows I passed out first…"

"Oh, well, we don't have to tell him."

"Be best if we didn't really. How are they?"

"Still unconscious when I made the coffee. But stable. Even that hacker- Miss Taylor. Did Sherlock really say he was her husband?" There was a tinge of jealousy there, and Anderson grimaced at how she let Sherlock treat her.

She deserved better than to fall for sickos and psychopaths.

"Just for the bullet." He said.

"Oh! Well, I mean, if he was married we'd know right?" She sounded so hopeful.

"They hate each other. Really. Got into that fight, didn't they?"

"Yes. I don't like her much."

"… I supposed you wouldn't."

A fierce blush from her at that.

"She seems rude, that's all."

Anderson smiled at her. "She's a total geek. Sherlock can't have a conversation with her without being confused. Even I don't get some of the references."

Molly gave him a small giggle. "So it's true he doesn't know about the solar system?"

"Definitely. We tested it."

"Doctor Hooper!" A young man came rushing in. "Someone's hung a body from the roof!"

"What?" Molly cried in shock.

"Shit! The six hours…" Anderson fisted his hands, and then he and Molly were both running after the man.

They managed to make it outside in time to see the body come down from where it had hung and Anderson had a moment of incredible relief when he realized that it wasn't Lestrade.

The relief evaporated when he saw what was left of the man's hands.

And the note that cheerfully read: "I'm done playing now. This time, it's your heart or bust darling!"

"Oh no… is this…" Molly turned her eyes on him.

"Yes." Anderson nodded grimly. "It is."

The look on her face was suddenly determined. "Right. I'll take the body. You take the bullet."

NX-SH-NX

**A/N:** I can't honestly say much about this chapter, since it has me green around the gills... sex scenes (and sex in general) creep me out. But Irene was very insistent... Also, I don't mean to degrade her or make her a slut. But I wanted her to be a nymphomaniac- because I think that Sherlock is asexual (we have enough proof from Conan Doyle _and_ Gatiss and Moffat) and I wanted to see how these two extremes reacted to each other. Again- AU.

Thank **DeadTeenWalking** for the update- she's been bribing me with banners for this story. I'm South African, so I bribe really well and really easily. ;P But her banners are awesome. Now if only I could figure out how the bloody things work…

**Thank you**: for your alerts/reviews/C2 additions!

I'd ask you to **review**, but I need to go bleach my brain. Ew.


	11. Hi Puddin! Did You Miss Me?

**WARNINGS** for this chapter apply. Once again- they're clearly marked. It deals with **Irene's idea of psychological torture.**

**CHAPTER 10**

"… Damn the fuck it!" Anderson spat as he tried to match the bullet to a Colt of all fucking guns. This was hardly America, but he'd come up blank with all the rest of the usual guns and was now expanding his search parameters to ridiculous amounts.

"Nothing?" Molly asked as she scurried into the lab in a flurry of caffeine and toasted bread.

"No. All I know is what it _isn't_."

"Oh. That's… not good." She nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm going to take it you haven't fared much better." Anderson sighs as he grabs a slice of toast.

"No. This… he's good. He really is. But I thought the bullet I found might be the same one." She holds up a specimen bag for his inspection and Anderson tilts his head at it.

"It _looks_ like the same calibre…"

"Well?" Demands an imperious voice. Anderson turns to snarl at him, but Molly jumps in to stop any conflict.

"Well, the bullet from the hacker doesn't match any handgun that's been tested so far, but the bullet from the body might."

"The body. Of course there was a body, but it wasn't Lestrade. No- there would be far more mourning and gnashing of teeth and other sentimental displays. This was someone who looked similar- was tortured similarly, much like the man in the printer factory."

"Well, yes…" Molly smiled.

"Look here Sherlock, I'm running ballistic analysis on every gun there is…"

"You won't find a match. Moriarty would never let there be a match."

"And just how would he do that?" Anderson demanded furiously.

"Oh, there are any number of ways to fool the incompetent that generally live in the forensics laboratories…"

"Now look here- just because everyone seems to be out of commission…!"

"Of course everyone else is out of commission Anderson! That is what he wants! A game where he holds all the cards! A game that allows him to corner me and make me desperate, all the better to make me make mistakes and become… too tired to think, too _normal_ to take him on…"

"Too anguished with grief to continue. And then he'll kill you." Molly said as her eyes brimmed with tears, handing him the note.

Sherlock scowled at the thing, obviously wanting to tear it apart but knowing that he needed all the leads he could get.

"So, no leads on the ballistics then." Anderson threw down his gloves in disgust. Sherlock gave him a speculative look, which was then followed by one of Molly. She flushed.

"Well, I'm going home to my shower in that case." Anderson added, heading for the door only to be faced with a very intense looking Holmes.

"No." He said. "No one is leaving, this is where we will be making our new base."

"Our…? Are you insane?!" Anderson nearly shouted at him. "I have a wife! And besides, you can't tell me Bart's is safer than the Yard! That's simply ludicrous!"

"It is safer! Look around you Anderson- I know every person that is supposed to be able to access this lab. You and Molly are well acquainted with them as well. There are several fire alarms, escape routes are more common, most areas are access card controlled and there are _no cameras_ in here. It is harder to spy on us in Bart's. Thus, we are able to plan and discuss in relative freedom."

"Wait…" Molly interjected. "You want us to plan and discuss… with you?"

Sherlock scowled at her. "Is that not what I just said?"

Molly smiled at him, a happy little smile that had Anderson scowling and wishing that Sherlock would just stop being such an ass and appreciate the effect he apparently had on women. And men. Though Anderson was happy keeping that mental image far away from himself.

"So you want us to just hole up here for the foreseeable future, is that it?" He scowled at Holmes.

"Why not? Those of us who have not been kidnapped are just upstairs. I would have thought that moping by your mistress' bedside would be considered the sort of foolish emotional display you would be rather keen on participating in."

"Fuck you! You don't know a damn thing…!"

"Now, now boys! Let's not get into fights here! We have to work together- isn't that right?" Molly gave them both a wobbly little smile.

Anderson shot Holmes another poisonous glare, "Only if he stays the hell out of my personal life."

Holmes shot him a look of his own, before sneering a vicious "Oh, as if I _care_!" at him and throwing a file on the bench.

"Uhm, is that evidence?" Molly asked.

"No. That is a case my dearest brother has… insisted that I take. Look at it. Now. I am far too busy."

"Oh, I'm not really…"

"Molly, until such time as another person winds up dead from this you are of no practical use at all to me. I hardly expect you to _solve_ it, but I do expect you to see whether or not it is worth my time."

"You are such a fucking prat." Anderson glared at him.

"It is the truth. Now, Anderson- status report on the three upstairs. Go mourn the fate that has befallen your one true love."

Anderson shot him one last venomous look before he stepped out of the room, surreptitiously glancing around the hallways. Just in case a demented axe murderer for hire was waiting for _him_. He was fine not ending up dying in some fucked up little game between two psychopaths. He liked living. Liked it almost as much as he liked having unrestricted access to his son.

When he finally got to the ward where they were keeping Sally and Dimmock he thought that maybe he should have been more prepared for this. Maybe he should have gone for the traditional flowers and get well card? Except for the fact that Sally would give him an indecipherable look and promptly either sit him down and explain the concept of their relationship to him again, or break it off. Neither were options he wanted to explore. So he went to the room that Dimmock was in first.

Dimmock was sitting up, looking for all the world like he'd gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali and being fed ice chips by a nurse.

The nurse gave him a small smile before making sure that Dimmock was comfortable and leaving. Dimmock looked at him from his unswollen eye.

"… This is all going to hell, isn't it?" He asked.

Anderson swallowed. "Seems like it."

Dimmock frowned- it looked to hurt like the dickens- and gave the window a glance. "Do you think London'll survive it?"

Anderson blinked rapidly a few times, "I… think that London has survived fire, plague and bombings. She's a tough city. Barring the worst, she'll make it."

That got him a nod. "How's Donovan then?"

"Haven't been to see her yet." Anderson admitted, tiredness causing him to slump into the bedside chair with a wince.

"Ah." Dimmock still wasn't looking at him.

They sat in silence for a long, long time after that. Though when Anderson left, he really wasn't sure why.

NXNXNX

"Mrs. Taylor? Mrs. Taylor?" A female voice was picking away at the violent headache pulsing behind her eyes. And Chris cursed the woman for disturbing her in her misery.

Wait… what? _Mrs?_

Chris opened her eyes to a worried face and the obvious hospital décor. Lovely. Sherlock (the complete and utter _prick_) had gotten her shot.

This realization, of course, alerted her nervous system that it owed her a world of pain. She cursed inwardly and grit her teeth, grinding at them with a fervour she was certain that she had developed only after meeting the younger Holmes brother.

This assignment, right here, this was definitely going to kill her.

The nurse, all oblivious and annoyingly nurse-ey, gave her a sunny smile. "So glad you're with us again, Mrs. Taylor. Now, how do you feel?"

"… like I got shot." Chris managed to croak on the third try.

The nurse nodded in a far too serious manner. "Of course. So you remember getting shot?"

"Kind of hard to forget."

"Sometimes. Sometimes your brain needs to forget to cope with it."

Oh, like this was news to her? But she was a professional, damn it. And one with a severely under developed sense of fear. And, psychologists would try to tell her, something of a possible narcissistic personality disorder that made her feel quite invincible.

Though she wasn't feeling that invincible now.

"Don't worry about your husband, he'll be right back. He just got called away." The nurse looked around conspiratorially. "To _Buckingham_. Is he some sort of spook?"

Chris just arched a brow at her.

Which was when the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes walked in and snapped at the nurse to get the hell out so he could spend some quality time with his wife.

"Hi, _Puddin'_. Miss me?1" Chris sing-songed at him.

He gave her a predictably blank look.

"It's a quote." She sighed.

"Obviously not a useful one."

"I don't know. The look on your face when I say it is priceless. Like one of those Master Card ads."

This time she was graced with a glare. "Concentrate Woman!"

"I'm doped up on drugs! It's amazing I can even speak! Also- I dare you to do better after having _gotten shot_."

"Oh, please." He flicked a dismissive hand at her. "It's hardly an excuse to lie around moping."

"Actually, it is. You know it's not nearly as non-fatal as they make it look in those movies… I do love those movies though."

"You spend far too much of your life on inconsequentialities."

"Part of a good cover is being ready for _anything._ You're a one trick pony, I'm the pony that can ride a unicycle whilst juggling ten _Saimiri sciueus__2_, quoting Star Trek TOS complete with brilliant impersonations of the entire cast- down to the very last Red Shirt."

"Do you _ever_ make sense?" He snapped.

"I make sense. I make sense _all the time_. I'm a totally sensible person. Just not to you. But you're weird. So. It's really all your fault."

His glare could have levelled London, but really, she took out hardened criminals for a living. It just wasn't that scary.

"What do you remember? I doubt it was anything useful, but still."

"It was dark, and he was wearing a flat cap. Height was about 6'1", brawny shoulders… brown cargo pants… t-shirt."

"And that's all?" Sherlock sniffed disdainfully at her. "I thought you people were trained for this sort of thing."

"I got shot, Sweetheart. I wasn't in any shape to do more than trying to keep breathing."

"Useless." He dumped a laptop into her lap, causing a whoosh of air and a pained grunt to escape her. "Now- find John."

"… _What?_"

"John. Find him. Now. Pay special attention to ministers' wives." And with that he swooped from the room in a dramatic whirl of coat tails.

"I'm fine, by the way! Oh, yes, it _hurts_ but not nearly as much as that time we decided to have sex on the kitchen counter and you forgot to tell me the stove was still on!" She yelled after him, a tell tale pause in his steps and all those around him's telling her that she'd gotten the last dig in.

"Hope you're fucking blushing right now, Sherlock Holmes. Asshole." She muttered quietly as she struggled into sitting position. "And I bloody well hope that when I die I at least take you down with me."

NXNXNX

"Oh, dear John. How rude you've been to me now." Irene Adler cooed at the man currently restrained in the chair. "Look, you've made me bring you back here. It's your own fault you know. Insulting a girl's hospitality like that."

John Watson looked up at her through the blood on his face- a pity that her guard had had to damage it. But the man had tried to pull off a daring escape during his feeding.

Irene climbed into his lap, her skirt riding up her thighs, and started playing with his sandy blonde hair. "You make it so hard on yourself, you know. If you'd just give it up and enjoy my… hospitality…" She jerked her hips forward and smiled at his grunt. "Your time here can be so enjoyable."

**HERE BE WARNINGS FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL TORTURE!**

She tugs at his hair and thrusts against him again.

"Miss Adler," he grits out, "this isn't hospitality."

She tuts at him. "Of course it is, John." She runs her hands down his shoulders and leans in to nibble at his ear. "I'm a _very_ hospitable host."

"Wh-what are you doing?" He sounds slightly hysterical now.

"I'm showing you the benefits of being a polite guest, of course." She says even as she reaches for his zipper.

"Are you mad?" He yells, struggling against the bonds and the chair's weight.

"Only about you, _darling_." She purrs as she runs her hand over his penis. "Would you like me to have a go at you? Give you an outlet for all that energy?"

"Get your hands off me!"

She smiles as she moans out his name and jerks her hips theatrically against his, causing him to curse.

"Oh, John!" She pants theatrically, "That was lovely. You're so _biiiiiiiig_!"

**END OF WARNING- YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES**

He's red in the face and pointedly not looking at her, as he tries to control his body. She gives his penis one last friendly pat.

"Oh, relax John. I'm hardly going to rape you in a chair… this time. No, I have a much better way of controlling a man like you."

She retrieves her phone and waves it in front of his face. He keeps his eyes closed though, and she finally resorts to digging her fingers into his jaw to get his attention. His eyes look bleak and she pets his cheek.

"Now, now dear. No need to look so sad. All I have is the footage to ruin you."

She presses play and watches him pale as the video plays. It really does look as though they're having a seriously kinky bout of sex- or at least the orgasm resulting from one. She moves to the back of his chair and threads her hands through his hair, using it to jerk his head up.

"What will that do, do you think, to the two Holmes brothers? You having an affair with me, hmmmm? Will dear _Sherlock_ ever be able to trust you again? I'd think about that, Dear John, before you try my patience again."

She shoves his head down and whispers in his ear. "I know all the ways to break a man, Doctor, and I'd hate to waste them on you."

She steps to the side when he throws up, nose wrinkled in distaste.

"I think, Doctor, that we understand each other perfectly now." And with that she turns on her red heels and jerks her head at the guards.

"You're not to touch him, boys. Turn off the lights and the heating. I want absolute silence and darkness. Three days."

"Yes, Miss Adler."

"We'll make sure the good Doctor becomes a polite, respectable member of society. Even if it breaks him."

NXNXNX

"Uhm, Oliver?"

"Yes, Minion Number Four?"

"You might want to have a look at this…"

"What? I'm busy."

"Uhm, well, yes, but this might be important…"

"Oh, fine. What?"

"The cleaning company that we're investigating?"

"Out with it, Minion!"

"It's registered in Agent Taylor's name."

"… Fuck."

NXNXNX

**A/N:** Uhm. Yes. That happened. Sorry?

Harley Quinn quote, she says it to the Joker, generally when she busts him out of Arkham.

The scientific name for the Common Squirrel Monkey.


End file.
